Persona
by L. VanDattae
Summary: Damaged and weak, Robin returns to Gotham, determined to save the city's protectors from an impending threat, except Jason isn't too happy about the little Persona's return or the betrayal it represents, and Tim (stuck in the middle of it all) has no idea why he keeps ending up in Gotham in the middle of the night.
1. Robin's Back

****Persona:** **the mask or façade presented to satisfy the demands of the situation or the environment and not representing the inner personality of the individual. —_Dictionary. com _**  
**

**Chapter 1**

Robin's Back

Tim blinked once, sleepily, trying to dispel the cobweb-like clinging of a dream lingering past its expiration, distorting reality. He expected the blurry, nonsensical images to fade into the soft down of a mattress and cocoon-like coziness of the comforter wrapped around him, to wake in the warm darkness. The dream only solidified though: the prick of gravel beneath his bare feet, the chill night air through the thin protection of pajamas, the bark of a dog. A car horn honked suddenly beneath him, loud and shrill, blasting apart what dream-daze remained, startling him rudely into instant and full consciousness. Tim sucked in a breath, fighting sudden vertigo, because he was _on_ a _roof _and those were _real_ cars beneath him. He jerked back away from the edge, gasping for air through the panic constricting his lungs and reeling at the veritable flood of unexpected sensory input.

He couldn't remember having gotten there. He'd gone to sleep, that was all. He'd gone to sleep, and he'd woken up on some forsaken _rooftop_ in downtown Gotham—what he _hoped_ was Gotham. For a minute the panic consumed him, burning high and bright, his heart thudding painfully fast as his eyes darted around, trying to take in the unfamiliar buildings around him, the flickering of streetlights, the whistle of the wind. He was still backing up, one foot after the other, clutching his shivering arms, shoulders hunched around the pounding of his heart. He only realized it when he nearly tripped over a protruding pipe and his heart redoubled its efforts in renewed panic. The world tilted alarmingly, edging toward black, and he realized he didn't know if he was going to have a heart attack or hyperventilate first. Swallowing down the hysteria that threatened to consume him, he stopped, took a minute to just clench his chattering teeth, fill his lungs, and get a grip.

He was in Gotham—those were Gotham buildings, they had to be. He could figure this out. He could find a way home.

Slowly his breathing steadied, his heart rate slowed. First things first: get off the roof.

Cool logic prevailing now, he found the fire escape easily, the wind whipping his pajamas tight to his legs and chest as he made his way down into the alley below. Eyes glanced up as he jumped the last couple feet to the ground, watching him from the darkness between garbage cans and old cardboard boxes.

"You all right, boy?"

The question caught him off guard, and as his head jerked to look, his feet stomped down on broken glass. Tim hissed, hobbling helplessly for a minute in the alleyway's grime, but the man was standing up now, ratty blankets falling to the ground, stumbling toward him. Tim took off at a limping run, heading for the street, ignoring the raspy "Hey, wait!" called out behind him. He didn't want to find out whether the man really intended to help or not, or what he might have to trade for that help.

More eyes turned curiously as he burst onto the street. Eyes he ignored. There was no way he was going to avoid catching unwanted attention. Not barefoot in pajamas. Not looking like a lost little rich kid. He ground his teeth, but there was no helping it.

Several blocks later the fear was wearing thin into growing frustration with still no recognizable landmarks. As the alarm faded though, he began to realize just how sore his arms and legs were. Tim frowned down at roughened, bruised knuckles and rubbed at the burn in his biceps and thighs. He couldn't make sense of it. Not any of it.

If someone had kidnapped him, why leave him on a roof? If he'd truly been unconscious at all, why the bruised knuckles? Why the sore muscles? And if he hadn't been unconscious, why couldn't he remember?

Despair began to sweep in, clogging his thoughts. He didn't know how he'd gotten here. He'd been walking for blocks. He didn't recognize _anything_.

Suddenly a hand slid around his shoulder, gripping tight.

"Whoa-ho!" A man stepped out in front of him, barring his way with a, "Lovin' the jammies, kid. What you–" He didn't get any further. Tim broke his wrist and dodged past, leaving the man cursing, bent over his hand, his comrades too inebriated to do more than laugh at his predicament instead of coming after Tim. It was just as well. Tim didn't know if he could have dealt so easily with more than one.

He ran, feet numb now to the glass shards still embedded there, the sharp concrete, and the cold. He ran from the pointed curses echoing off the brick behind him, from the outstretched claws of the city waiting to swallow him, from the whole nightmare. Running like that, everything turned into a rush of color, streaks of grays and browns and pastel streetlights.

Somewhere along the way, the blur of colors faded into black. Later, much later, when he thought about it, he'd realize there might have been screaming before everything faded out completely. As it was, when he woke later that morning, back in his snug bed, he was more than glad to let the relief flood his body and accept the whole thing as a too-real, too-strange dream. Except… He threw back the blankets with arms that nearly shook with unexplainable fatigue for a night spent in quiet slumber, and felt the relief drain away as quickly as it had come.

There was still glass embedded in his bloody, ruined feet.

* * *

Nightwing and Red Hood disagreed on a number of things. How to do their jobs. The vessels they'd chosen. The fact that Hood existed at all. Whatever the case, it was never a surprise to see them arguing instead of crime fighting. Or arguing _and_ crime fighting as was currently the case.

Jason gleefully took out the knee of the man rushing at him with a bullet, hammering an elbow into his face a moment later. More because it ticked off Nightwing than because it was necessary. And it kept Red Hood happy. Always a bonus. Though in truth, his pleasures had long since meshed inseparably from the Persona's.

"That kind of needless damage…"

"Take a night off, Pretty Boy. I got this."

"Taking them out doesn't mean leaving them in the hospital!" Nightwing's escrimas caught one poor bugger brutally hard in the ribs, his irritation showing through.

"This was my fight in the first place!" Jason growled, even as he pressed back-to-back with the other man, working together even when they weren't. "Go find your own!" If he were honest, he enjoyed Nightwing's presence—_Dick's_ presence, the man under the mask just as present as Jason was in Hood. In any fight, there was no one better at his back, no one more interesting to trade quips with. Even Hood had some appreciation for the other Persona's moves.

"I would!" Nightwing's sleek boot stomped hard into the chest of a mace-wielding punk, sending him crashing back into his friend behind, and that, that right there, was one of the reasons he liked Nightwing despite the annoying lectures: he could be so beautifully violent. "If you didn't need so much babysitting!" Jason's own boot crunched the fingers of a man grasping desperately for his knife, even as he grinned maniacally—a grin echoed by Hood, or maybe Hood's glee seeping into him. They'd been born in blood and pain, walking the razor-fine edge of sanity. He opened his mouth to retort…

And then a Robin-rang flew past him and embedded in the shoulder blade of the man sneaking up on his left.

Jason blinked, instantly forgetting what he'd been about to say, eyes going wide at the flicker of green and yellow and red.

"Robin?!" he yelped disbelievingly—it was definitely a yelp, a very undignified yelp. Had that been Robin?!

"What?" Even Nightwing startled, wiping out their last opponent with a kick to his temple that crumpled him on the spot, and went springing to the side of the building to see. Because nobody, not a single good Persona in Gotham, wanted to see Robin again. Not after last time.

Not that anyone could stop the Persona from choosing a new vessel, just that Jason had seriously thought it was the end after Joker had beaten it to a pulp. But down beneath them, soaring around the corner of the alley, was the definite flicker of a cape, flaring yellow along the underside.

"Hell." Jason threw himself over the railing, Nightwing following, and just that quickly the night went from routine bickering to chase-the-Robin.

"He's back? Why is he back?" Nightwing demanded as they landed on the ledge of an adjacent building, wind whipping past, already running before their feet had even touched down.

"Like I should know!"

"You said he died!"

"He did die!" Jason ground his teeth. When he caught that little Persona, he was going to tear its little cape off. The traitor. Maybe demand to know (forcefully) what it thought it was doing dragging another kid into this mess—a kid who wasn't _him_. Which idiot had wished this hard for its return (so he could go teach them a lesson or two). Maybe put it out of commission more permanently.

Ahead of them, Robin ducked between a wind-whipped wall of second-story construction tarps, vanishing into the unfinished building behind. Nightwing leapt after him, landing gracefully moments behind. Jason hesitated a moment and then swung around, hoping to cut the littler Persona off on the other side. Slipping in through an unfinished window, he made his way to a central hall, examining the darkness for movement. Finding none, he chose a direction, glancing down connecting corridors as he passed, looking for the familiar green and yellow and red. Hurrying around a corner, he finally caught sight of Nightwing, who was running toward him, waving his arms.

"What?" Jason paused, confused. But it was too late. Feet stomped down on his shoulders, and even as light as the weight was, the unexpected force still drove him to the ground, knocking the breath out of him. Robin didn't stay to press the advantage, using it instead to bound away, out the glass-less window in the room to the right. Jason rolled to his feet, swearing, and for just a second, as Robin dropped out of view, he thought he saw the Persona flicker. It was the kind of flicker reminiscent of a dying neon sign, a short somewhere in the wiring, and it froze Jason mid-crouch, because... What had that been about? He'd almost seen the kid under the costume, the pajamas under the Kevlar, and that was dangerous. Even Hood seemed distinctly unsettled, materializing the boot knife uneasily, as though he might need to protect Jason. Or maybe it was Jason unconsciously wanting the extra protection. It was hard to separate the two.

He was still staring when Nightwing reached him.

"Hood?" the man asked, sliding to a worried halt, but Jason batted the concern away.

"It's nothing. Come on!" He shoved the older man toward the window, following on his heels. They reached the window just in time to see a familiar cape disappear around the corner of the building one over.

"Why?" Nightwing asked, even as he swung his legs over the sill and shot his grapple. "Robin should recognize my Persona. Why is he running from us?"

"Because he knows I'm going to strangle him when I catch him," Jason growled. He couldn't get that flicker out of his head though, couldn't wash the bad feeling away. He kept seeing it as he swung across the street below, landing beside Nightwing on the ledge of the building one over. Instead of following the ledge around though, he jumped for an outcropping, swinging himself up onto the next level higher, trying to get above Robin, maybe get the drop on him. Below him, Nightwing shook his head, answering his own thoughts.

"Poor kid's probably frightened. Maybe it's affecting the Persona."

Jason considered mentioning what he'd seen, the worrying flicker, but it didn't matter if they couldn't get their hands on him.

"All the more reason to catch him," he replied instead, putting on a little burst of speed.

But after another forty-five minutes got them no closer to bagging the little vigilante—in fact, they'd nearly lost him twice—Jason realized they weren't going to catch up. Robin knew Gotham just as well as Nightwing and Red Hood and had the advantage in speed and agility, the body it possessed small enough to squeeze through openings they couldn't.

Losing patience fast, Jason skidded to a halt along a wrought-iron balcony, punching the rusted rail as he watched that same flicker of a cape they'd been trailing all night gliding away into the gloom. Taunting him. Jason had had enough.

Sighting for that faraway flicker, he aimed a Glock. A bullet through the knee would put him out of commission for a while, keep him safe, and it was a lot kinder than what Gotham would do to the kid. Merciful like. Of course, he hadn't accounted for his companion.

"Jeez! That's a kid in there!" He didn't see Nightwing's fist coming. In retrospect, he should have. It came from the left, fast and hard, and that was the last thing he remembered that night.

* * *

When the morning of the third day found Tim standing dazedly in the middle of the lawn, wondering why there was no longer a toothbrush in his hand and a sink in front of him—he'd definitely been brushing his teeth only a moment before—he had to admit he had a problem. He didn't even know what the problem was—sleepwalking, amnesia, kidnapping, possession (hey, it was Gotham!)—but he had it.

It was the third time in a row, and while neither of the second two instances had left him quite as far from home as the first, he felt dead on his feet, used up, sleep deprived, a general mess. And the dew glistening across the manicured lawn was slowly soaking into the hem of his pajamas while he stood there freaking out. Hastily, he sprinted across the grass back toward the house, hoping no curious neighbor was looking. Not that there were many. And there were even fewer who'd be up two hours before dawn happening to look over at the Drake estate. But if there was one thing he'd learned, it was never to underestimate the idle rich. He'd definitely seen the billionaire next to them, Bruce Wayne, out on his balcony at all kinds of odd hours.

Worse, Jack was home, asleep in the master bedroom, and if he didn't hear his son opening the sliding-glass door or crawling into bed, it was only a matter of time until the man noticed the circles under his eyes or the haggardness he could hardly hide, or just how many times he was ducking out of family activities, too worn out to participate.

By the time Tim reached the back patio, pulling the hidden key and letting himself in, the hem of his pajamas was drenched. He took them off rather than drip water across the linoleum and headed to his room to change. He was exhausted anyway, desperately in need of sleep… sleep that wouldn't come as he stood staring at his bed, heart thudding desperately quick, panicked at the idea of giving up consciousness again.

It had just been the lawn this time, no sudden jump to downtown Gotham, no ledges under his feet, but he hated not knowing whether he was going to wake up tomorrow in his bed or the middle of the interstate. He hated worrying that his father would come check on him and find him gone, that some neighbor or friend would see him standing here in the lawn or some rooftop in his pajamas and realize he'd finally snapped. He wasn't completely sure he hadn't.

In the end, he curled up downstairs on the couch with a mug of cocoa and watched the dawn spread across the sky.

* * *

Dick clung upside down in the shadows beneath the eaves, one foot hooked through a loop in the architecture. Or rather, Nightwing did, the dark domino a shadow across Dick's face. As still and as hidden as he was, tucked silently away high above the ground, there were few to notice. Except the one he'd been waiting for.

Batman stopped mid-stride across the roof, head turning straight toward him.

"What do you want?"

"Have you heard?" Dick grinned, a combination of Nightwing's joy and his own, not put off in the least at Batman's gruff greeting. "Robin's back."

"_Robin?_" Batman asked sharply, the smallest jerk in his shoulders the only indication that the news had rattled him. "Are you sure?"

"Hood and I ran into him the other night. It's him." Dick twisted gracefully from his hiding spot before stepping from the shadows into the faint light of the city. "Couldn't catch him. Couldn't identify his vessel."

Batman looked away, out toward the jutting, grungy fingers of the city, head bowed in contemplation.

"I'll keep a look out," he said finally, not looking back, and then he was gone, no more than a whisper over the edge of the roof.

Nightwing hoped they found the boy soon, before the little Persona could get into any trouble.

* * *

Most of the time, Jason had control. If he lost it every now and then, well, pretty boy Nightwing didn't need to know. Neither did the Bat he hung around with. Usually it was anger, _blinding_ anger, that separated him from Red Hood, allowing the Persona to take full control, make a bloodier mess than usual. Sometimes… it was accidental.

Jason didn't see the sideswipe coming. It was that dang tail. Croc wasn't supposed to even _have_ a tail. It sent him flying—spinning and flying—straight into a brick wall full tilt. His head cracked dangerously and he slumped into the stagnant water.

Jason scrambled for control, but the blackness was creeping in, and Hood didn't take kindly to anyone injuring his vessel. So when Jason lost the fight for consciousness permanently, Hood didn't see anything wrong with braking every bone in Croc's body... and then paying a visit to Robin's vessel. Maybe it was his own vessel's previous connection with the tinier Persona, but Hood could feel Robin like an itch—an unacceptable, lingering attachment to the human that was his, his, _his_—pointing the way.

After all, he wouldn't let just anyone take his vessel's previous Persona for a spin, and it was only proper big brothers pay little brothers a visit when they returned from the dead.

* * *

By the end of the week, Tim was starting to wonder if he'd lost his mind. Was this what losing his mind would feel like? Certainly, only people who'd lost their mind would consider putting up cameras to record their own nightly activities because they couldn't remember doing them. He was seriously considering sleepwalking a valid possibility at this point. Or sleep-marathon-running, judging by the continued burn in his arms and legs. It was either that or psychotic breaks. He preferred sleepwalking. And no friend telling him he was supposed to be _asleep_ for sleepwalking to work was going to convince him otherwise. He couldn't remember getting _home_ yesterday.

To say nothing of the little things: the notepad paper askew on his desk, or the curtains pulled back, or the toothpaste left on the wrong side of the sink.

Like now. Tim paused three steps into the bedroom, having found the window open. A window he had definitely left closed. It was the third time that week.

He barely had time to register any significance it might carry other than his own pockmarked memory before he was slammed back against the wall. Then there was a gun in his face. "Found you."

Tim reacted on autopilot. He grabbed the hand holding the gun, shoving it up and kicking out hard towards the gut. It would have been a solid hit, if he hadn't been barefoot and his assailant wearing… body armor? Definitely body armor. He got the gun though, wrestling it away and rolling out of reach, coming to his feet in one agile motion, all smooth grace. The gun leveled on the man who'd brought it a second later.

"I'm having a bad week," Tim warned, pulling the safety. The man only laughed, a deeply unsettling laugh, reaching a hand out toward Tim.

"Uh-uh. That's mine." The gun disappeared—it literally desolidified in Tim's hand—and reappeared in the other man's grip. Tim's eyes widened, eyebrows hiking into his hairline as he stared disbelievingly at his empty hands and realized how much trouble he was in. There was only one thing he could be dealing with considering that little stunt. He'd heard of it, read about it in reports from Arkham. Sometimes, when people wished hard enough, wanted it bad enough, they became something different…

"_Persona_…"

He didn't have time for anymore thought before the gun went off. He threw himself to the left and the bullet hit the wall millimeters behind him. The report was still ringing in his ears as he slid in low toward his assailant, aiming for the legs. The man kicked out at him, and Tim caught the foot. He pulled the knife he could just see sticking out of the man's boot, but it dematerialized before he could slam it into the man's knee. Then there was a hand in his hair, jerking him to his feet. Tim gritted his teeth as he was unceremoniously slammed back into the wall, that emotionless red helmet bearing down on him. He tried to twist free, but that same knife whunked into the wall beside him, nicking his ear by a hair's breadth, the man's fingers following up with a sharp jab to his shoulder that pushed the humorous bone from its socket. The world whited out for a full minute at that. Sound faded. Colors narrowed to the white-hot heat of pain. When he could think again, the man's gloved hand was crushing the fingers of Tim's good hand hard against the Sheetrock. He'd managed to stay on his feet, but that might have been the man's body trapping his own.

"What do you want?" he growled, staring up boldly into that red helmet even as he trembled under the pain coursing along his nerve endings, one arm hanging uselessly. There was no point calling for help. Jack wouldn't be home for at least another thirty-six hours, still away on business, and there was no one else to hear for miles. That was fine. That was the way Tim liked it.

In response, the Glock reappeared in the man's free hand, barrel pressing against his temple. There was no hesitation in the grip of that hand, held perfectly steady on the trigger, no indication of anything but emotionless resolve from the man under the hood.

_Bang_. The noise was sharp and loud. Deafening at such a close range.

Tim didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Not even a little. Maybe his breath hitched, maybe his heart had to re-find its rhythm when he realized he was still alive. That was all.

"What do you want?" he demanded more harshly. And now, finally, that red helmet tilted just a margin, a considering cant. The Glock faded from its owner's gloved grip and the palm of that hand slid into his hair, jerking on it just a little, and the way he used that grip to tilt Tim's head minutely made him think the man was searching for something in him. Tim bared his teeth, the fingers of his good hand clenching where they meshed with the man's, pushing back a little. The man chuckled—a low, raspy sound—and even though Tim couldn't see the face behind the red helmet, he knew the man's eyes were locked on his, staring into him, deep beyond the blue ring of his irises into the darkness.

"There you are." The hand in his hair moved again, this time to slide under Tim's chin instead, despite the little jerk Tim gave, trying to avoid it. He ended up swallowing instead against the leather-bound bars of fingers stroking his throat.

"You'll do," the man said. Tim had the distinct impression he'd just been approved of. For whatever reason, this very dangerous, very alarming intruder… approved of him. Abruptly, he stepped back, leaving Tim to hold up his own weight against the wall, good hand going to his injured shoulder. "Try not to screw up too badly."

Then it vanished. The red helmet, the body armor, the guns, all of it. And a very unconscious man dropped to Tim's floor.

Tim felt a little justified in freaking out for the following five minutes.

* * *

**Author Notes:** I am aware that there is a Persona anime. No, this is not based off that intentionally. I'm not even sure how close it is. This is mostly because of Lady Yunalesca on AO3. She's writing a fic where Tim doesn't know his friend Dick and his friend Nightwing are the same person, and I had this weird thought occur to me, like, "what if Dick didn't know either?" And then I jotted down the idea for Persona. I didn't know if I'd ever get time to write it, so I prompted Ladelle with a similar idea to get her back into writing, and she did an amazing, awesome job, and I've linked her drabble on my profile. Needless to say, reading her amazing work re-interested me, and now we have this. Story. Thing. And despite the original idea being about Dick, this story is largely about Tim and Jason with side support from Bruce and Dick.

Thank you, all you lovely people, who took the time to vote at the end of my last story and chose this idea to follow up on.

As usual, I'm posting before I really should be posting, when there are still some details that are up in the air. Chapter 2 may be quite a ways out (Jason is going to have a very rude awakening). Also, if there is anyone interested in this fic who can be brutally honest, I may be in need of a Beta in the future...

PS: The Dick&amp;Tim Persona fic on my Tumblr Masterlist is NOT the same as this. I will be changing the name of that eventually so they don't get confused.


	2. Upsetting the Captor, Bad Idea

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**Chapter 2**

Upsetting the Captor, Bad Idea

Jason woke up with a groan. His head hurt from the earlier crack with the brick wall. He took a moment to wince and curse, bringing a hand up to check his head… except, he couldn't actually get his hand up. His eyes snapped open, taking in the thick carpet tickling his nose and the lavish but very unfamiliar living room before twisting to take in his own trussed-up state. He'd been wrapped neck to toe in something thin and clear and sticky.

"What the hell?" Jason wiggled experimentally, then harder when he found it wouldn't give, flopping around in frustration. He had just taken to biting the material, getting a good chunk in his mouth, when twin tennis shoes padded to a stop a couple feet from his face.

"If you intend to chew your way out, it's going to take you awhile." Jason looked up—and up, because he was on the floor—to find a kid staring down at him bemusedly. A kid! With a face that was the pretty side of handsome, all long lashes and fine black hair and pale skin.

"Cellophane?" he asked, fighting the outrage at this injustice. "_Cellophane?!_ What? Rope wasn't available at the hardware store?"

"Ethernet cables don't bind as tightly." The boy's lips quirked bemusedly. Jason glared.

"Very funny." He rolled over, pinning the kid with his most serious expression. "_Get me out_."

"Not until you tell me what you intended breaking into my house last night." The kid crouched beside him, elbows resting on knees, looking ten ways to curious. It was the same kind of crouch Nightwing sometimes assumed. The crouch of a vigilante. And where had he picked that up?

"I don't know what you're talking about! Seriously! The only thing I want with your house is to get _out_ of it!" Jason wiggled harder. Curse cellophane and its stickiness! He could manifest one of Hood's Glocks, but he'd only shoot himself in the foot. Maybe the boot knife… No, he had as much chance of stabbing himself with his hands pinned between layers of the wretched packaging material. "Look, just let me out. I'll leave. You'll never have to see me again."

"Which one are you?" Those piercing blue eyes again, like he was a particularly good puzzle.

"What?" Jason asked, confused.

"Which one? You can't be one of Batman's allies if you're harassing citizens in their homes…"

"If there's any harassment here, it's definitely on you!" Jason wriggled in ticked-off demonstration, eyebrows raised as if to say, _See?_ But the kid only frowned, unimpressed.

"I know about your little trick."

"Trick?" Jason froze, hoping he didn't mean…

"Yeah. Your trick. Where you go all leather-fetish and threaten people with knives." He tilted his head up a little so Jason could suddenly see the nick at his ear where someone's knife had definitely come too close in the last twenty-four hours. "You don't seem interested in the money…" Blue eyes leveled on him again, curious. "So what are you?"

"You've got the wrong guy," Jason growled. It wasn't even a total lie. What the hell had Hood been thinking?

The kid regarded him from beneath lowered lashes, unimpressed.

Jason groaned. Dang, what a mess. He really had busted in as Red Hood last night. What on earth had possessed Hood to trust this upstart rich kid with his too-curious eyes who obviously didn't know anything? At least the kid hadn't called the police.

"Obviously you're some sort of Persona…" Okay, so maybe he knew _something._ It didn't prove anything: half the psychiatrists in Arkham knew about Personas and could've leaked the information. Maybe it warranted some investigation, that was all. It wasn't enough, not to reveal Jason's ID, not by a long shot.

Jason stared at him, cheek pressed to the carpet, craning his neck to see, and contemplated the problem.

"What's your name, kid?" If Red Hood thought the kid was safe, Jason wanted to know why.

"You broke into my house and you didn't even bother checking to see who lived here? You're not very bright."

No, he wasn't very _conscious_. There was a difference. When he got his hands on Red Hood…

"Humor me."

"It's Tim. Drake." Jason paused. Tim Drake. Why did that sound familiar?

"You're that rich kid? The one whose mommy died?" He knew even before he finished that it was the wrong thing to say. He was frustrated, undermined by his own Persona, and possibly a little vindictive, looking for a bit of revenge on the rich kid currently holding him captive against his will, which was just ridiculous when he thought about it. He was Red Hood. _Bloody_ Red Hood. Scourge of the criminal underworld. But none of that meant anything at the mercy of the boy he'd just ticked off. Definitely ticked off.

Blue eyes narrowed _hard_. The soft pad of feet walking away was his hope for freedom deserting him on the living room rug.

"Wait!" he shouted after the boy. "You can't just leave me here!" But the resounding silence only ate his words.

Right. Upsetting his captor. Bad idea.

To make matters worse, Hood was not helping at all. The Persona seemed content to lay back and let him deal with the situation. All Jason got from it was a general sort of uncaring.

"You like him!" Jason accused the Persona. "Aren't you supposed to be on my side?" If there was a response, it was something akin to a yawn and rolling over. Jason squirmed a little, renewing his attempts to tear through the cellophane, and decided he really didn't care for Hood liking this human brat. It was the principle of the matter, really. Hood was his, and the Persona had always been on the same page as him, always been furious at anyone who dared restrain his vessel. What was Hood trying to imply? That he'd like the kid if given a chance?

"What do you want me to do? Apologize?" There was no response. Jason glowered at nothing. "I am not apologizing. It's not my fault the kid can't take a hit." Wounded pride was a bugger, and he still retained enough dignity to suffer through, seething all the way.

But two hours of fruitless squirming and cursing later had gotten him nowhere. He was hungry. He was desperate. He was going to kill the idiot who'd ever thought up the _idea_ of cellophane.

"Kid!" he called, face pressed into the carpet in the picture of utter despair. "Kid! Come back!" If Red Hood thought the kid could be trusted, then he could. Even if Jason didn't like it. "Look, I'm sorry!"

A shadow falling across the floor alerted him to the kid's return. Tim stood in the doorway, holding a knife and looking unimpressed. Jason took in the possible weapon and stared back, steely eyed, prepared to full out Red Hood if he had to. But Hood seemed largely unconcerned by any possible danger, and when Tim dropped to knees at his side, it was only to slice through the thick cellophane, freeing him.

"Go," he said, stepping back and dropping the knife on the coffee table, which was awfully trusting considering. Jason stood slowly, rubbing his wrists and arms and watching Tim speculatively. The kid wasn't half bad really. Jason might have assigned him an undue amount of resentment over his incarceration. Definitely undue resentment. Somewhere in the back of his head Hood shifted impatiently, but he couldn't just leave things as they were.

He dropped a hand on Tim's head, tousling black hair, carefully not looking at the blue eyes now tilted in peevish suspicion.

"I lost mine too." And then, because he couldn't help it, he grinned maniacally. "You're actually pretty short, aren't you, pipsqueak?" Robin's version of short even.

"Get out of here!" Tim slapped at his hand, and Jason laughed, letting the kid chase him away.

"Don't let any more strangers in your windows!" He caught the door handle behind him. "And for pity's sake, get some rope!" The resounding thud that followed was probably the knife embedding itself in the opposite side of the door.

* * *

Bruce stood on the balcony, staring contemplatively across the dark lawn. It had been nearly a week with no real leads on Robin. All the evidence pointed to the little vigilante making rounds—Batman had run into several trussed up men left in alleyways during patrol—but there had been no visual of the Persona itself.

He'd been hoping Robin would approach him. The littler Persona had always been vocal with Batman, almost always sought him out—even if it meant invoking every bit of his ire for stealing his kids. That was the other thing… Before, Robin had always stayed close to the mark, taking the boys Bruce had brought into his home—he'd always wondered whether that was a testament to the heart of his boys or part of the inherit makeup of Robin to stay close to Batman—worrying him half to death. This time though… This time there were no boys in the manor. No one left for Robin to steal.

Slowly his gaze shifted from the encroaching dawn to the little light in his neighbor's far-off window, thoughts turning fondly curious at the sight of the boy awake on the couch again. He'd been doing that a lot lately. Tim Drake, the little neighbor boy, with his black hair and blue eyes and…

Bruce blinked, taken aback by his own trail of thought, eyes narrowing consideringly. Could it really be so easy?

He'd know if he saw the boy up close. He'd recognize the signs: the exhaustion, the haggard, haunted look he'd seen before. If it was Tim... If it was Tim, he'd find out. He'd check. Before the boy could get hurt. But how to approach him…

The sun chose that moment to break across the lawn and Bruce sighed. As important as it was, it was going to have to wait another day unless he could convince Lucious to cancel something. Of course, Batman could always pay Tim a visit that night if he wanted, but then he might frighten the boy, might make him less receptive to help.

Bruce sighed. It would all have been so much simpler if Robin had ended with Jason, the responsibility of a younger partner lifted permanently. Now there was another boy in danger, and Bruce wasn't ready for it, wasn't prepared to lose someone else. He looked out over the dwindling night, the fear of failure heavy on his shoulders and tight at the corners of his eyes, and wished…

He wished Robin hadn't come back.

* * *

Usually Jason was the one leaving bodies, not the one finding them. So he was a little surprised (and suspicious) when he found Waylon Jones lying limply on a backstreet in nothing but grungy, ragged jeans. It was definitely Waylon, not Croc, and that was really only cause for more caution, not less. But the large man didn't move as Jason approached, stopping just out of arm's reach.

"Hey!" Keeping one gun leveled, he nudged the man with a toe, but there wasn't so much as a twitch. He continued to lie there, breathing ragged, eyes opened but glazed. The gall of it all was that Hood was certain he had left Croc for dead not a week back. Obviously not as dead as he'd thought. But how the man had gotten here, or in such a condition, he couldn't fathom.

"Hey!" Jason kicked him hard in the ribs and finally there was a response. The man's eyes snapped to focus and he howled. Jason jumped back, surprised, both Glocks aimed, safety off, but the man didn't come after him, only thrashed, mouth wide and filled with that endless, throat-wrenching wail. It was disconcerting as heck.

"Stop it!" Jason kicked him again, wishing he could cover his ears, but the man didn't seem to notice. Not the first kick. Not the second. Not the round Jason emptied into his thigh. Whatever had happened to him, the man was beyond reason.

Unable to take the noise, Jason swung up to a nearby roof before alerting the cops. Let them deal with the crazies. He didn't wait for the red and blue whirling lights, just wanting to get as far away from that sound as he could. But the howling followed him the rest of the night, an uncomfortable echo he couldn't seem to get out of his head. It felt like a warning.

The uneasy feeling persisted into the next day.

As preoccupied as he was, Jason was a little startled when he suddenly recognized a boy at the open-air café across the street. Tim was sitting at one of the little tables, typing on a laptop with a can of Zesti beside him. Jason hadn't expected to see the boy anytime soon, if ever again, but it was a welcome distraction just then, and an opportunity: maybe he could figure out why Hood had left him with the kid.

Jason hopped the fence and slid into the seat opposite, unintentionally rattling the open soda can. "Hey, kid."

Tim startled a bit, but he caught the can before it could topple on the laptop. He had good reflexes.

"Ah, my masked assaulter." He definitely looked less than thrilled, mouth thinned into a grimace, eyes narrowed. He could do a good Batman impression. "Back to try again?"

"It's Jason. And hey, I told you, I blacked out. I don't even remember getting to your house, let alone threatening you inside. Truce?" He held out his hand, but Tim only rolled his eyes.

"_How_ can you not remember?" he asked. Jason considered. Hood had as much as written a signed confession, dumping him in the kid's living room, but it was better to keep him out of things as much as possible. Some knowledge was dangerous. Especially in the daylight. So he lied.

"I don't know." He shrugged lazily, openly, like he had nothing to hide. "No idea."

"And you're not worried about that at all?" Tim asked incredulously. "Does it happen often?" Apparently he'd gotten the kid more interested rather than less, and really, why was the kid so interested in that point anyway?

"No." Or at least, it hadn't happened often since he was still that little boy who'd first been thieved by Robin with no idea what was going on. It was close enough to the truth. "I do remember hitting my head." He hadn't wanted to admit that, but if it got the kid off his case... "Probably a freak accident. No big deal."

"Hm." Tim stared contemplatively into the distance for a second. "Do you think it happens to a lot of people? Walking around while they're blacked out?"

"Seems kind of– Wait. Have you been blacking out?" Because why else such a question? Why the interest? His eyes narrowed on the kid across from him perceptively, suddenly suspicious. The slight build. The black hair. What if…

"I can't remember getting into bed yesterday." Tim stared at him, utterly somber. Jason blinked. And blinked. And then broke out laughing.

"And here I thought it was serious for a moment there." He slapped the table, still chuckling, drawing annoyed glances from other patrons.

"It _is_ seri–"

"I'm pretty sure you have nothing to worry about." Jason smirked across at him. He'd actually thought for a second that Tim could be…

"Hmph." Tim settled back unhappily, frowning moodily at the keyboard and running a hand absently through his hair, which was much more disheveled than Jason remembered. And now that he looked…

"You're a mess." It was true. Jason's grin faded away. He hadn't been paying that much attention before, but now, in the unforgiving light of day, the circles under the kid's eyes were obvious.

"Thank you for that evaluation," Tim replied, droll.

"Seriously, kid, what's wrong? You look like you got blindsided by a truck a couple times." And that was being nice.

"I'm not having a good week. Just not getting much sleep." He yawned as if for emphasis and took a sip of the Zesti.

"Nightmares?"

"Absurdly realistic ones."

"What could you possibly have to be afraid of up in your snug little rich-boy world? Your valet's day off? Not living up to your parents' legacy in Honor Society? Oh, I know…" He leaned over closer, asking in the most stony manner he could manage, "_Did you fail a test at school?_" Tim threw a salt packet at him in retaliation, not amused.

"If only."

"Speaking of which…" Jason looked around suddenly. "It is a school day, isn't it?" he asked, realizing what was bothering him about this scenario.

"Yes."

"So? Shouldn't you be studying in some class?" Not that Jason was anyone to judge, just that Tim seemed like the smart, straight-A scholarly type, and he definitely wasn't eighteen.

"I already graduated."

Jason whistled. "No failed test then."

"Nope," Tim agreed.

"So what? No college?" he joked to hide the hike of his eyebrows. Little rich genius brat.

"Why pay someone else to teach me what I can learn myself?" As if to demonstrate, he turned the laptop so Jason could see the screen, but all he could tell was that there was some corporation website with a diagnostic program running on it. What was Drake Industries anyway?

"You're researching ancient artifacts?"

"Checking page load times actually. The techs my parents hired are idiots."

"Someone needs to teach you how to _live_."

"And I suppose you're the person to do it?"

"I could teach you a thing or two…" Jason replied, defensive.

"Mm," Tim agreed archly. "Effective threatening. Dismembering. Breaking and entering..."

"Bungee Jumping," Jason retorted. "Rock climbing. Spelunking. There are some nice caves in the area…"

"All so you can break into the really well _protected_ buildings." The curve of his lips was almost a smug smile, quickly hidden by reaching for the Zesti.

Jason blinked. The kid wasn't as stiff as he'd initially seemed, and it was strange to realize he was actually enjoying trying to make him smile.

"You all alone up in that big house of yours?" Tim's blue eyes found his, pausing in the middle of lifting the Zesti to his mouth, and in retrospect, okay, maybe that did sound a little awkward.

"If I am?"

"I'm just watching out for you. Can't let anyone know I was incapacitated by some runt." Tim snorted, taking a swallow before setting the can back down, apparently appeased that Jason's intentions were platonic.

"Your dignity will never recover." But he was smiling now. Openly. Jason liked it that way.

"Exactly! I mean, I could hold you down with a single finger." Tim raised an eyebrow, bemused.

"I've had self-defense lessons."

"Spoken like a true amateur." Jason held a hand to his heart, the picture of wounded pride.

"Well, if you _must_ uphold your reputation…"

Jason grinned at the invitation.

"If I'm in the neighborhood I'll swing by your window." Snob Hill Road wasn't his kind of neighborhood at all, but he could make an occasional detour… He swung back over the café's railing, still grinning, leaving Tim to call after him.

"I have doors! Multiple doors!"

* * *

Dick hurried through his patrol, feet barely touching down before he was off again, trying to cover more of the city, hoping to spot Robin again, particularly before he could get into any trouble solo. Not to mention, there was some poor kid somewhere who had undoubtedly begun to take notice of the injuries he'd acquired (Robin had acquired) and was scared and freaked out and alone. Dick remembered what it was like when he'd first been taken by Robin: the unexplainable black outs, the fatigue, the soreness. But he'd been lucky. He'd had Bruce, who recognized the signs and knew what to do.

They needed to find the kid before he got killed. Not that Dick didn't have faith in Robin's abilities, but untrained vessels were at a severe disadvantage. It was dangerous. Even if Robin was smart and kept the boy out of the thick of it (assuming Gotham let him; the city could be unforgiving), it was no guarantee. And there were other concerns... Dick had met at least one kid possessed of a Persona who'd been so convinced she'd lost her mind that she'd shot herself. Sanity was a fine enough edge with some Personas as it was.

All the more reason to find Robin's vessel and show the boy he wasn't alone, that everything was going to be all right.

Hurrying as he was, he ended up running into Batman before anyone else. The man was paused above an alleyway where two men had been tied to a fire escape, watching them struggle thoughtfully.

"Trouble?" Dick asked, dropping down beside the man and sticking his head over to look.

"Not for me," Batman grunted. The men didn't have the telltale bruises or broken bones of Hood's handiwork either though, and there was only one other person…

"Robin?" he asked breathlessly, excited now. Nightwing's own interest was an itch along his skin, the Persona just as worried about Robin in his own way. It was different this time, after all. Robin had never avoided them before, and Dick couldn't help but feel that something was wrong, that it was more important than ever to find him quickly. The urgency of the worry had been plaguing him all week.

"Mm." Batman turned away, stalking back across the rooftop.

"He must be close." The men in the alley hadn't been picked up yet after all. Dick frowned after Batman's retreating back. "Aren't you going to look for him?" The man shot him a look over one shoulder that would have been withering without the cowl, and Dick realized that he was already heading down one of the few likely routes a vigilante might have taken away from the scene.

Shaking his head at the lack of verbal communication, Dick headed down another way, falling into tag-team formation with the older man easily and looking for that flash of Robin's bright colors, the sign he needed. They were going to find the little Persona tonight. He could feel it.

* * *

As it turned out, Jason never got the chance to show up at the kid's house. He ran into Tim that night before he had the chance to make any late night visits. This time it was at some unholy hour in the morning, wandering down a dark street in Crime Alley. Jason actually did a double take, because there was no way some high-class brat like Tim would be caught on his side of town at this hour. But the vision persisted, the kid's feet scraping ever so slightly against the concrete as he made his way down the street barefoot. Jason quickly moved to follow the kid's path from the rooftops, curious, but it didn't take more than a minute for him to realize Tim obviously didn't mean to be there himself, and it wasn't just the lack of footwear or the pajamas. He was doing a good job of hiding it, trying to look strong, purposeful, stride sure, but there were signs: a slight hesitation over decisions at cross streets, the smallest defensive hunch of his shoulders, the way those piercing blue eyes jerked up at the unexpected flickering of streetlamps.

Lost then.

Jason swung himself over the edge of the building, Hood's helmet and gloves and body armor fading as he fell until he was _just_ Jason. He landed with a thud on the pavement behind the boy, intentionally louder than he could have landed to give the kid a head's up, and only got a kick to the ribs for his trouble. Jason grunted, taking the brunt of it to catch that thin ankle.

"Woah there kiddo, it's just me." Tim's eyes were wide, wild under a fall of disheveled black hair, and he looked to be having a truly awful night.

"Jason?" he asked. "Thank heavens." Jason wasn't sure when he'd started liking the kid, wasn't sure when he'd started caring, but looking down now into those huge, lost blue eyes, looking at him like he was the last piece of wreckage to cling to in an empty ocean, Jason knew suddenly that he was going to protect this kid with everything he had.

"What are you doing out here alone at night?"

"I don't know." Tim shook his head, eyes still wide and looking fifty ways to freaked out. It was strange to see the kid so off balance. Tim always seemed to have everything together. Even when Jason had apparently broken into his house and threatened him, the kid had seemed to radiate control. Seeing him now, spooked like this, was setting Jason's nerves on edge.

"How did you get here?"

"I don't know!" Tim crossed his arms over his chest, panicked and shivering in the chilly night air. Jason manifested Hood's leather jacket with no more than a thought and wrapped it around the kid's slender shoulders. Sometimes belonging to a Persona had its perks. Tim took a deep breath, fingers clenching the jacket tight. "I haven't been sleeping very well. In fact, I'm not sure I've been sleeping at all." Suddenly the kid's attempted warning earlier at the café—the one Jason had laughed off—was seeming much more serious.

"You're not sure?"

Tim looked up at him, and Jason had never seen the kid look so wrecked.

"Woah. Okay. Back up. What's wrong? What happened?" He really, _really_ should've listened to the kid earlier.

"I don't–"

"I get it," Jason interrupted, gripping the kid's shoulders. "You don't know. Tell me what you do know."

"I've been blacking out for a little over a week now. Sometimes for hours. Sometimes all night." There was a funny little whisper in the back of Jason's head at that, something about a week… Something else that had happened a week ago… A week… But Tim continued and Jason pushed the discordant note aside to listen. Tim needed him. "I wake up in the morning exhausted, like I haven't slept at all, sometimes with bruises I don't remember getting. Jason, I don't know what's going on."

Unfortunately, Jason was beginning to get a suspicion that these symptoms were familiar. Looking at the kid now—really looking at him—that wild black hair and fair skin, that build, thin but wiry… Just like… Like…

Sudden shots rang out in the alley to their right.

Jason whirled. He had the kid tucked under one arm before he'd even thought about it, pressing that pretty face against his chest with one hand while the other shot up, gun materializing against his palm. Just that quickly he was Red Hood, the outfit bleeding overtop his own. It was dangerous to switch like that with people about, dangerous to be seen by witnesses. But none of that mattered in comparison to the thought of losing the slender body crushed against him, panting a little against the harsh grip. Hood only pulled him closer possessively, growling as he stood tall, facing the fight that spilled into the opposite end of the alley.

There were more of them than he'd initially thought. Some brawl that had turned deadly. They didn't notice Jason right away, too caught up in their own internal dispute, but the shots were straying down the alleyway, and he couldn't allow that. Shoving Tim behind the relative protection of a dumpster, Hood threw himself into the fray. He shot out kneecaps and shoulder blades, incapacitating as quickly as he could with vicious, single-minded glee, aware of the kid sheltered behind him.

It wasn't until he'd reduced the number of participants in the fight to the last couple that they started to focus on him. He took out the first to attack him, sidestepping the clumsy attempt and clocking him to the back of the head. The second fell immediately after with a knee to the solar plexus. He turned to the third just as something yellow whisked past him from over his shoulder—small and metallic, like a stylized R—and he narrowly missed the bullet that had been aimed at his head, its trajectory thrown off by the stylyzed shuriken now embedded in the man's hand. The bullet flew past him, back toward the boy Jason could just see out of the corner of his eye.

He whipped around, looking for the kid, looking to make sure he was safe, already knowing it was no use.

All of a sudden Hood's uncharacteristic decision to dump him in some genius boy's home was making a lot more sense. A brutal kind of hint even.

Because it wasn't Tim standing there anymore. It was Robin.

* * *

**Author Notes:** I think Jason just got a clue. Next chapter, Jason is not happy with this revelation, Tim is (possibly) even less happy and has been avoiding a certain fear he's going to need to face (even if Batman has to point it out personally), and the author has a bad feeling this fic is going to be another 40k word + fic, considering how many words I have and the fact that I'm only just starting the training chapters. (why do I do this to myself?)

It's good to see some familiar, erm, icons from my reviewers, though it looks like I lost more people than I kept (happily hoarding the four reviews I have). My hope is this, that if I get this story far enough along, readers will begin to understand what's going on and enjoy it as much as I do, and hopefully interest will pick up. Of course, the first chapters of all my fantasy fics have been notoriously NOT well received, so I really shouldn't be surprised…

I always thought if Tim hadn't lost so much time to Robin, he would have been some genius hacker kid at 15. XD It's the little details that always strangle me, things like: how widely known is the Persona knowledge? Do normal everyday citizens know they're being terrorized by Joker and Scarecrow Personas? I've been going round and round on this.

**Obsessivebookdiva:** Why do I always forget I can't respond to your review normally? Every time I try hitting the button. Anyway, thank you, your review came when I was feeling particularly glum over this new story and how little love it had. *considers the line-break suggestion* There were a lot of short scenes, weren't there? And a lot of jumping time and place. I don't think this chapter was particularly better about that either (though all the events this time do take place within 24 hours instead of over the course of a week). Hm. I wish I had a beta so I could ask someone whether I need to be more careful about confusing readers with time skips… I've been thinking it's possible that everyone was just really confused over the first chapter and that's why it got so little love (what, between the scene jumps and the Persona thing, which hasn't been outright explained and won't be until Tim gets some training). At the very least, the next chapter is more linear with longer scenes, but that could just be because there are more characters in one place.


	3. Where You're Hiding

.

**Chapter 3**

Where You're Hiding

Tim came to with Jason's gun pointed at his forehead again—a sight as familiar as it was unwelcome—and he was not prepared to deal with it. He couldn't even remember what he'd been doing during the past few minutes—there was a worrisomely blank spot between getting press-ganged into Jason's protection, crushed against his side, and waking up facing a gun. That wasn't the first or worst blank spot of the night, but it was more than enough.

"Haven't we already done this?" He folded his arms unhappily. He was tired. He had passed stressed out some time ago. He was about five seconds from turning on his heel, walking off and letting the man shoot at will. Except Jason looked truly dangerous just then—not his normal cranky take on life, but seriously disturbed, even a little unhinged.

"You're _Robin?_" the man hissed, and that made even less sense really. Maybe Jason favored diminutives over his name, but this one was out of place. What was he getting at anyway?

"Try again." Insulted, Tim made to walk away, but he was brought up short by Jason's hand on his shoulder, fingers digging deep into the flesh beneath his clavicle. The man spun him around, brutally shoving him into the crumbling mortar wall on the left.

"That won't work this time, Robin."

"I'm _Tim!_" he burst out, aggravated. "What, have you lost your mind?" He tried to bat the gun away, but there was a soft click as Jason turned off the safety and Tim froze instantly. "What is wrong with you?!"

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't blast you where you stand, you little twerp." Tim felt inexplicably hurt, but Jason was breathing hard, and for the first time Tim considered he might not be the only one losing it a little.

"Jay! It's me!" he tried, raising his hands. "It's me!" He needed Jason to be on his side. Heaven knew he needed it. Because he was truly losing his mind, lost in this labyrinth of dark streets he couldn't seem to escape, and Jason had been his first hope in a week of getting out of it, of at least not being alone in this mess anymore, and now…

"Uh-uh. Playing the innocent kid card isn't going to get you out of this. I know where you're hiding now. Show me your cape. Give me a reason."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Tim nearly shouted, and something flickered in Jason's eyes. Doubt? But not enough. The nose of the gun brushed his ear, pushing back strands of hair. A knife solidified suddenly in the man's other hand.

"If you won't show on your own, maybe you'll come for the screams of your vessel. I could take out his Achilles tendon…" The edge of the blade scraped high along the inside of his thigh. "…or his Sciatic nerve: remove the feeling in his legs. Something nice and permanent, just damaging enough to make him useless to you."

Tim shuddered, eyes wide, fear freezing the breath in his lungs, and the only thing greater than the panic was the sudden and utter sense of betrayal he felt hearing Jason talk like that—because it was Jason under that hood, it was. He had just started to think he could trust the man, just started to believe in him. The man had been _helping_ him not five minutes ago, and for a second Tim could only stare up at him and try to make sense of such a change.

There was darkness dragging at his vision again—that familiar prelude to unconsciousness he was starting to get sick of, the world narrowing and falling away. Except he wasn't going to let it take him this time. Not now. Not again. He shook his head, fighting it, clawing his way through to the man he'd thought for a minute might be a friend.

"Jason, please!" he begged, searching for that friend in the stranger before him. The knife started to dig in. Tim was so concentrated on the burn of that cold silver that he almost didn't see the way the shadows had gained solidity. Not until a black-gauntleted hand came down on Jason's shoulder, jerking him backwards. Tim heard the report of the gun, deafening in his ear, felt the mortar chips cut his cheek, and decided he must still be alive. There was a high-pitched whine in his right ear, drowning out the curses that were definitely spilling from Jason's mouth. No, not Jason. Because the second that gauntlet had come down on him, he'd become the intruder in Tim's house, leather and body armor and all. If the red helmet wasn't on, there was still a mask.

"Red Hood, stand down!" It was Batman, Tim realized. That black cape. That cowl. That presence that ate all the light in the vicinity. It was Batman who had Jason pressed up against the brick wall, hands pulled behind his back, while the younger man twisted and cursed.

The black threatening Tim's vision eased away then, and he breathed.

"Get off me!" Jason growled. "You don't realize who you're letting go!" Tim sunk a little into the shadows, trying suddenly to be inconspicuous after the accusation, but Batman didn't even glance back at him. As much as Tim wanted to just watch, awed by this opportunity to see Gotham's darkest vigilante—he'd always known the man was real, that had never been a question—seeing him now he thought it might be better to avoid the man's attention. He backed up away from the scene, stumbling a little over the twisted, cracked asphalt of the alley, not planning anything so grand as escaping, just… distancing himself. Apparently though, that wasn't an option either.

"Nightwing! Keep Tim here!"

Tim startled, both that the man knew his name and at the blue-striped gauntlet that was suddenly on his shoulder. It made him jump. He hadn't realized there was anyone behind him, hadn't heard anyone else approach. Of course, he hadn't heard Batman in the first place. He spun to face the vigilante behind him, wide eyed again.

"Woah, kid, it's okay." Nightwing held up his hands placatingly. Unlike Hood, Nightwing was a name Tim had heard in the media, if not as frequently as Batman. He relaxed marginally under the man's reassuring smile. Despite the nearly solid black suit and startling swiftness of his movements, there was something open and honest about Nightwing, something naturally convincing, naturally calming. Or maybe it was the way the man looked like he just wanted to hug him. "Tim, is it? Did he hurt you?" Tim shook his head.

"No. I–" He looked over at Jason. "Is he all right?" Now that he wasn't in danger of being shot, he was worried. He'd blacked out. Again. Only this time Jason had gone from protecting him to wanting to permanently maim him, and he had a bad feeling it was his fault. Something had happened during that black gap in his memory. Something bad.

"Hood?" Nightwing's eyebrows lifted a little at his worry for his aggressor before glancing at the man in question. "Mm. He's never been the most stable."

"I'll give you stable!" Against the wall, Jason growled, jerking against his restraints. "It's him! Don't you see?" But Batman held fast, uncompromising, and Nightwing's focus was already back on Tim, assessing him from head to toe, head tilted to the side. Tim squirmed a little under the scrutiny.

"What are you doing out here in just your pajamas?" Tutting, the man scooped him into his arms before Tim could escape, which might have been his way of saving the little lost boy or complying with Batman's order to keep him put or just finally getting that hug he obviously wanted, maybe a little of all simultaneously. Tim glowered irritably.

"I didn't come out like this on purpose."

Nightwing looked like he wanted to ask how Tim had ended up out here in the middle of the night at all, but at that moment Jason decided he'd had enough.

"Get out of my way!" With one tremendous heave, the man threw Batman off and flung himself toward Tim. Nightwing tensed, hold tightening as he prepared to fight off the larger man barreling toward them, only Batman got there first. One black gauntlet caught leather, and he jerked Jason back by his jacket, straight into a black-clad fist, following up with a knee to the stomach, and body armor or no body armor, it dropped the younger man. Jason grunted, sliding to the ground, where he glared resentfully but stayed down.

"What is wrong with you?" Nightwing's grip had eased again, but he looked furious now, righteous anger directed at Jason. "Get a grip! He's just a kid!" Tim would have protested that, but there was no way to look anything but tiny and helpless curled in the man's arms. "Jeez, B, he doesn't even have any shoes on!" Nightwing had turned to look at Batman with growing incredulity, and Jason chuckled cynically, finally catching the vigilante's attention more than any previous cursing or shouting.

"Don't you get it yet?" the man asked, corners of his mouth curved harsh and wry. "He's Robin."

Nightwing's eyebrows hiked up, gaze sweeping back to Tim with newfound fascination.

"Robin, really?" he asked. Tim only stared back crossly, annoyance growing again.

"I told you, I don't know who–"

"You're _Robin_," Jason repeated, like it meant something. "The reason you black out is because Robin takes over."

Nightwing looked speechlessly over at Batman for confirmation, who hadn't stirred an inch, gaze dark and studiously resting on Tim.

"You knew?"

"I had guessed."

"Since when?!"

"Recently."

Tim looked back and forth between the two of them with growing unease. Watching them, or maybe just watching Batman standing there, the list of possible Robins they could be referring to had dropped drastically. In fact, suddenly the Robin accusation was beginning to make a lot more sense.

"Robin?" Tim asked, breathless with sudden realization. "_Robin?_ Like _Batman _and Robin?!" There had been a time news of the vigilantes would have excited him—that spark of wide-eyed interest when Robin was mentioned—but the boy he'd been had matured into the lanky, graceful teen he was now, interest shaded under a fan of black lashes. It had been at least three years since he'd actively followed those reports, and anyway, even in all his old, childish daydreams, he'd never imagined meeting Robin quite like this. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. This wasn't right at all.

"The one and only," Nightwing replied, smiling down at him again, like it was something exciting.

"_That_ Robin," Jason confirmed darkly, and it was like a key had clicked into place. All those times he'd woken up on some forsaken roof, it had been Robin. All the blackouts, the exhaustion, the dislocation… it had been _Robin_.

"But I'm not… I can't…"

"You think any of us vigilantes choose to throw away everything and skulk around in the shadows all night saving people we don't know?"

"We'll help you," Nightwing said, throwing Jason a dirty look. "You won't be alone anymore."

"But… I'd know. Surely, I'd _know_." He was still clinging desperately to the belief that there had been some mistake. The breathless awe of childhood dreams was fast dissolving into the bone-deep chill of reality. Maybe he'd once fantasized about being Robin, but not like this. _Not_ like this. Robin wasn't supposed to take _over_.

"There is a war people don't always know they're fighting," Jason muttered grimly.

"Robin," Batman said, "is a Persona—a Wish someone strong-minded made—given shape and flesh by inhabiting a human vessel: you." It was the first time the man had spoken to him, mouth pressed steely tight—he _understood_—and somehow that finally made it real. Panic rose up, sharp and feral.

"Get it out." Tim looked desperately over at Batman, the dark cowl that stared impassively back, and then up at Nightwing, hands clenching on the man's arm. "Get it out of me."

But Nightwing was looking down at him sadly, head shaking slowly back and forth.

"It doesn't work like that." And Tim felt the last dregs of hope fade away.

"What do I do?" he asked hoarsely, hands loosening and falling away. "Keep blacking out every night? Hope I don't fall _off_ the ledge the next time I wake up on a rooftop?" Nightwing's eyebrows furrowed at that.

"Robin left you–" he started to ask, frowning now.

"That's what happened to Jason, isn't it?" Tim interrupted, putting things together faster now. "His Persona dumped him on my carpet?"

"Jason?" Nightwing blinked, gaze sliding to the man in question. "He knows who you are?" Even Batman was looking now at the man still sitting on the ground.

"It was Hood's fault!" Jason replied defensively. "Hood figured out who the kid was somehow. And that's different," he told Tim, disgruntled. "Hood knew you were safe. Robin wouldn't have chosen you if you weren't."

"We'll find out what's going on. Robin wouldn't leave you somewhere dangerous unless he had to." Nightwing's grip tightened briefly, reassuring. "You're important to him, promise." Tim wasn't sure he believed the man—he couldn't see it—but Batman was stepping closer now, gliding up to them like the promise of pain. Nightwing didn't move, didn't draw away like Tim wanted to, stuck in the man's arms. No, Nightwing only looked up at Batman's approach questioningly.

One black gauntlet gripped Tim's chin, thick and abrasive, grip firm but not unbreakable, not the kind of pain Tim knew the man could have exerted, just enough to warn him to follow that lead, malleable to the man's direction. It was a wonder that the man couldn't feel his heart beating, wild in his throat, where those black-clad fingers pressed. Tim let them tilt his head up to meet Batman's penetrating gaze, feeling stripped bare under the force of it, but allowing it all the same, because he understood now. It was the same thing Hood had done that first time.

"You will wait for me tomorrow night." The gruff voice held all the cold authority of chains pulling tight. Tim blinked, shivering at the strange and sudden sensation of constriction, of having been inexplicably restrained somehow, and tried to pull back, and only then realized the man was talking to Robin. Tim bristled, unhappy being talked over, but there was something about Batman that instilled obedience and Tim held his tongue.

The man continued to stare at him until something in those hard shoulders softened, the unassailable Batman visage slipping a little into something more open, more caring.

"Tim Drake. I'll take you home."

* * *

Jason watched unhappily as Nightwing ushered Tim into the Batmobile, curling the kid up in the front seat while repeating softly reassuring things. He watched as the man closed the door and sealed the kid inside with Batman, the vehicle carrying its passengers out of sight—and really, it must have taken all of Nightwing's will to let the kid go when he obviously wanted to go with and make sure Tim was all right. He watched the man stare after them for a minute.

Then he watched as the warm, reassuring smile dropped from Nightwing's face.

"All right, Jason, what's going on?" Nightwing's arms folded crossly, and Jason swore he could feel the weight of both Dick's outraged stare and Nightwing's surprisingly savage protectiveness: a particularly fearsome combination. "You've had it out for Robin since he came back!"

Hood shifted uneasily at the threat to his vessel, rising to the surface edgily. He'd been particularly hard to deal with the entire time Batman had been restraining him earlier. Jason pushed the Persona back down impatiently and ignored Nightwing outright. They both knew the worst the man was going to do to him was attempt to string him up by his ankles to get him to talk, and just then Jason was willing to take a piece out of anyone who tried. He was still seething inside, bitter for the double betrayal. After all, Robin was one thing, but Hood?

"_You knew!_" he accused the Persona. "_Why didn't you tell me?!_"

"_You would have gone after him without ever getting to know him. You wouldn't have given him a chance_." Even his own Persona was set against him.

"_You were enjoying watching me run around_," he summarized.

"_That too_."

"Come on, Jay," Nightwing continued, not having heard any of the silent conversation. "Even if you've got some issues to work out with your previous Persona, the boy has got nothing to do with it."

It wasn't like he didn't know that. It was just that, intentionally or not, Tim was protecting Robin.

"He's got everything to do with it!" Jason shoved Nightwing out of the way, stalking off down the street. He didn't need the man to sort him out. He especially didn't need the man to do it out of some misguided brotherly instinct to protect the new kid. Just like Robin.

Jason ground his teeth. Walking away wasn't going to get him any space though. Definitely not from the lazy, unconcerned voice in his head, and not, apparently, from his fellow vigilante either.

"You met Tim before, right? That's how he knew your name?" Nightwing's hand fell on his shoulder and Jason turned to glare, rolling the offended shoulder. Hood rumbled against the undesired touch, rising again. He'd always harbored animosity when it came to tolerating other Personas touching Jason, which was too bad, since Dick was the most physically needy vessel ever. Dick himself continued obliviously. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened!" Jason tried to shake him off. "I woke up in the kid's house. I left." He definitely wasn't going to mention the cellophane bondage. Uh-uh. Nope.

Nightwing frowned dubiously.

"He looks like he's a good kid."

"_You should go see him again_."

Jason shook his head, but it was absolutely no use trying to make Hood shut up when he didn't want to (he couldn't exactly get away from the Persona), and neither of them were going to leave him alone anytime soon.

"And you know how hard the Persona thing is initially," Nightwing continued.

"_Pull Robin out of the kid if you have to. Just have that chat you want already_."

"He needs our support."

"_If I have to put up with your moping any longer_…"

"Both of you shut up!" Jason couldn't take the double needling anymore. He glared viciously at the only one of the two physically present to take it, and Nightwing held up his hands, innocent. The older man couldn't quite keep off the grin though, knowing now Hood had been bugging Jason too.

Unfortunately, Hood didn't like Nightwing thinking they had anything in common when it came to his vessel.

"_I'm taking you home_," the Persona declared suddenly, growing restlessness finally spilling into action.

"What? No!" Jason realized belatedly that he must have actually said that out loud when Nightwing raised a quizzical eyebrow, amused. There was no time for that though, because he was trying to fend Hood off, fighting the Persona tooth and nail, and those kinds of divergences in their partnership only ever led to… There. Blackness edged deeper into his vision the harder he fought, spreading like the shadows of frost's fractals on winter windows, until he was forced to give up, falling back with a frustrated growl into Hood's protective hold. Forced to watch, not feel, the red helmet materialize, completing the leather-clad ensemble he was already wearing. Sometimes Hood could be an overbearing bugger.

The Persona's gloved fingers closed around Nightwing's throat, even if they both knew he couldn't strangle the other man that way, not with Nightwing's protective gear on. Sometimes it was the principle of the action that mattered.

"Jason is mine," Hood growled. "Stay out of this."

"Stay away from Robin," Nightwing retorted, staring right back. Hood's fingers tightened, itching to choke the man's air off, but there still wasn't any good there. He shoved the man away instead, disgusted, and shot a line for the roof.

It was a long trip back. Jason had nothing to do with Hood in charge but think about Nightwing's warning and how much he really wasn't going to take it. Not just because Robin owed him a good, long talking to, and not just because it would tick off Nightwing to bother the kid a little, but because…

The way Tim had looked at him at the end, unhappy and betrayed—the memory of that look had him shifting restlessly under his own skin. He owed the kid… something. He hadn't figured out what yet, and definitely not an apology, maybe not even an explanation, but… _something_.

* * *

**Author Note:** Jeez, this chapter has taken forever (I was trying to post it two weeks ago and just could not get past the first draft stage). On a different note, I made the decision to split this chapter up in order to get _something_ posted, because the chapters have been longer than my normal average and I just can't keep up with posting 5000 words every time (just because that's where the best cliffhangers have ended up). This chapter nearly hit 6000, and I had to put my foot down. Unfortunately, this means that a couple important things I thought would be next chapter (part of what's wrong with Robin, why Jason is so frustrated with him) are going to wait until ch. 5. Sigh. (Ch. 5 is actually getting obnoxiously long too...)

So there was this stupid (kind of large) detail I was still debating over in the first two chapters and hoping no one noticed me avoiding it, and that was how much of a personality the Personas have. Are they just mindless Wishes or can they think and feel for themselves? Because having actual personalities starts to bring up some awkward body-sharing questions. Then I realized halfway through writing this chapter that I was being an absolute idiot. Of _course_ I want them to talk, and be annoying, and deal with awkward situations, because that's what makes this whole thing fun. And so we have for the first time, Hood's overbearing attitude coming through. Aw, he's so protective of Jason!

So much love from everyone last chapter! I really appreciate it! A special thank you to the Guest reviewers from last time that I couldn't personally respond to. (I missed some of the later reviewers too, sorry!)


	4. How to Control Robin

.

**Chapter 4**

How to Control Robin

Batman lifted him through his bedroom window, setting him down on the carpet inside, large hand withdrawing from his waist—really, what was it about these people and using windows when there were perfectly good doors? The floor beneath his feet didn't feel firm at all though, didn't seem real. Or maybe it was his legs that were shaky, everything catching up with him at once, because _Batman_ was in his room among all his very real and ordinary things, looking impossibly out of place. Despite the unsteadiness, Tim stepped back, distancing himself a little from the dark, hulking intruder in his room and allowing their shadows to disentangle. He was still a little wary of the man and everything he represented: this change, this world he was apparently a part of now, and the fate he shared with Robin.

The ride over had been spent curled in the passenger seat of the Batmobile, the world flying by in a knee-knocking rush. There hadn't been time to take it all in. Now there was suddenly too much time, all at once, and he didn't understand what was expected of him, who he could tell, who would believe him. His understanding of everything had changed.

Looking at Batman now, Gotham's protector crouched on his windowsill, that seemed especially clear. He'd once read newspaper articles on the man's exploits, even followed them excitedly. To know Gotham had hope, that there was someone out there doing good… it had been something to look up to. But Batman wasn't the good, helpful person he'd thought he was. It had been a lie like everything else.

"You're one too," he said abruptly, hands hugging opposite elbows tightly, teeth gritted. "You're a Persona."

"Yes."

"You're controlling someone too," and some of his unhappiness must have come through, his disillusionment with Gotham's heroes.

"It's cooperative." The man shifted, cape spilling a bit more onto the floor, like midnight seeping into his room. He made no apologies. "Batman provides me with a means to fight. I provide the Persona with the physical vessel it needs to operate."

"You cooperate?" Tim blinked. He'd assumed that the others, like himself, didn't have much of a choice over being snitched every night. Jason had certainly claimed not to remember that night he'd first broken in. "That's possible?" His gaze slid to his dresser. "Robin hasn't been very… cooperative."

"You aren't in sync with him. I'll teach you." He raised a hand to stall the flood of questions trying to pour out of Tim's mouth. "Not tonight. Get some sleep."

"When?" Tim asked. He didn't want to go through another night like those of the previous week. He shuddered.

"Soon," Batman replied.

"Tomorrow?" And he couldn't help but sound hopeful.

"Robin will patrol with me tomorrow night. I'll make sure you get home. Sleep tonight."

That wasn't what he wanted to hear, but there was obviously no pushing the man. Tim glanced uneasily at his bed. He hadn't slept in it for a week.

"I really should catch up on work..."

"Not tonight. You're exhausted. You haven't been sleeping properly." The man stepped down off the windowsill, straightening imposingly in the bedroom proper. Tim scowled at the rebuke, light as it was. How had the man known that anyway? Of course he _looked_ exhausted, but… somehow the man _knew_.

"I have work," he tried again, more authoritative. He was responsible for it, and he really did need to get it done, even if he could do it as easily in the morning.

"Tim…" The man took a slow step forward, across the floor toward him, and Tim stepped back, suddenly threatened by the restrictions the man was trying to impose upon him. Jack would have left him alone. Jack would have trusted his judgment. Jack, who was blissfully unaware any world existed quite like the one Tim had just been shoved into.

"I can't sleep." That was closer to the truth. The back of his knees bumped into something solid—the bed, the man had been backing him toward it all along—and Tim's heart rate leapt in alarm.

Batman reached out before he could bolt, one black gauntlet firm around his upper arm.

"You're afraid."

He was. He hadn't realized that before. It had been so easy the past week to just… find something else to do, to busy himself, anything to keep his eyes open a few minutes longer. He hadn't been intentionally avoiding sleep, he'd just been… busy. Why sleep when he had work? Why sleep when Batman could be teaching him how to _deal_ with this? He couldn't stand the black outs, the lack of control over his own life. He couldn't stand the thought of waking up to another alien vista, not knowing how he'd gotten there. He _wouldn't_. Forced up against the bed now, he was acutely aware of his own growing hysteria.

"I can't. I _can't_." He tried to throw off the man's hold, tried to struggle, desperation welling up. He was shaking, he realized. When had he started shaking? But Batman's grip was unbreakable. "Please."

"You need to face this."

"I need to learn how to deal with Robin!" he growled back, but Batman's other hand was closing over his mouth, and there was something… A whiff of something sharp and out of place, and he suddenly couldn't hold himself up. He felt weak, his legs unsteady, _drugged_. The man had drugged him. Suddenly he was hanging onto Batman for support more than he was trying to push away.

"You don't understand," he tried to say through the gloved hand across his mouth, desperate as he lost strength, slipping further into the man's arms. "I don't know where I'll wake up!" Not that staying awake had made a difference, but somehow the bed had taken the brunt of the phobia. The couch still _felt_ safer.

"You'll wake up in bed," the man replied firmly, lifting him off his feet and laying him gently on the mattress.

"No! Please!" He grasped weakly for the man's arms, trying to reach out, trying to claw his way up, even as he fell back. It seemed a long way down.

"I promise." The man's impassive cowl swam above him. There might have been fingers covering his, squeezing tight, he wasn't sure. The terror faded out, leaving only betrayal, bright and bitter, following him down.

* * *

When Tim woke up mid-day, ripping himself away from the bed, the sun was high in the sky. It was a relief to find Batman had been telling the truth: he was still in his own room, surrounded by his own familiar things. That didn't dispel the lingering resentment though. Even if the man had assured he'd gotten some solid sleep, he'd still knocked Tim out against his will.

Tim closed his bedroom door with more force than necessary as he stepped out in the hall, startling Jack, who was just coming up the stairs.

"You're up?" Jack asked. "I was just going to check on you."

"Why didn't you wake me?" Tim asked irritably.

"You've looked so exhausted lately. I was just happy you were finally getting some rest."

Tim felt instantly guilty. He'd worried Jack. Of course his dad had noticed he was losing it.

"Thanks." He smiled, trying to reassure the man a little. "I guess I was more tired than I realized." Jack had been through enough as it was, and he didn't need to worry about his son's problems on top of it. Tim wasn't even sure what he could tell the man, but he knew he didn't want to talk about it right now. He pushed the bathroom door across the hall ajar a little, ducking his head awkwardly. "I, uh, need to..." He pointed to the door.

"Oh, right." The man took a step back down the stairs, looking awkward himself now. "I'm glad you're feeling better." And then he turned around fully and hurried away, leaving Tim to slip into the bathroom and close the door, alone with his thoughts at last.

He should have been more grateful to his dad, but he couldn't sort out anyone else until he'd sorted out his own feelings on the matter. At least he knew what was going on now. Knowing was better than wondering what was wrong with him, wondering if he was losing his mind.

He looked in the mirror, at the familiar tangle of black hair and black eyelashes shading blue eyes, and let it all sink in for the first time, let the harsh light of day show him the truth.

Robin had chosen him. Him. The thought was astonishing. It made Tim wonder, had Robin only recently claimed him or had he taken refuge inside him years ago when his last vessel died? Had the Persona watched him? Judged him? Weighed his worth? Had Robin settled on him one night, ethereal form sinking into him, lighter than moonbeams on his skin, claiming his vessel? Or had the Persona known instantly? Had he been drawn to him the moment he lost his last vessel, straight as an arrow, embedding himself in Tim's soul? Had there been some single, brilliant flash? And even if there hadn't, Tim wondered, how had he not noticed something had changed? How had he not sensed there was another entity inside him?

He'd always thought he'd _know_ if he'd been chosen like that. In all his younger daydreams—the years he'd spent wishing he could fly through the night too—he'd never imagined it like this: the loss of control, consciousness stripped away, the dread of waking up disoriented and lost.

He half expected to see Robin when he looked in the mirror now—a shadow, some sign—but his reflection was the same. Still, he couldn't trace the fine blue thread of veins under his skin and not wonder if Robin was under there somewhere, just beneath his skin, filling all the little empty spaces.

Blinking into his reflection, he was hit suddenly with the responsibility he'd just been handed. Robin was one of the most recognizable symbols of hope in Gotham, the one kids wished for in the dark. He couldn't turn away from this or shun it, because Gotham needed Robin and Robin apparently needed him. That warmth, that light was inside of him somewhere. He'd been entrusted with keeping the little Persona safe.

Even if he was still miffed by the inability to consent to any roommates, in the fresh daylight and with some actual sleep behind him for once (he grudgingly admitted that Batman had been right about the sleep), Robin seemed less like a threat and more like a charge. A challenge to stand for something beyond himself. He knew he wasn't crazy now. There were people he could _talk_ to now. Nothing could be so bad again.

* * *

"If you want to shoot me, then shoot me," Tim said, not turning around from his chair at the computer. Jason winced, only half through the window. He'd deserved that.

"I'm not going to shoot you."

"Then get out." He kept right on typing away, all but ignoring his intruder. Only the stiff set of his shoulders and the aggressive way he attacked the keyboard showed the defensiveness under the surface. This was not going to be easy.

"I'm not going anywhere. Not until we talk about last night." He tromped across the rug until he was standing behind the kid, an imposing figure blocking the light, and caught Tim's hand where it still sped across the keyboard. That finally managed to break the kid's determinedly fixed staring contest with his work. Tim snapped around with barely restrained fury, spinning his chair out from underneath him as he did, using it to knock Jason's legs out from under him. It was a clever move. It surprised Jason, who lost his grip as he sprawled onto the ground, making a mental note to get the number of that self-defense teacher the kid had mentioned, because really, what were they teaching kids these days?

"What is there to say?!" Tim snarled, fairly springing at him. Jason caught the kid's hands, struggling to keep the boy from his throat, and well, if this wasn't exactly how he'd pictured this conversation, at least they were working out their issues. "You were contemplating maiming me! You would have _done_ it!"

"Yeah, I get carried away like that." Jason flipped him, pinned him with a knee while the kid struggled furiously. "Robin is a bit of a sensitive subject. Would have been a shame to cut up such pretty skin though." Tim kneed him for his sass, hard between the legs, and Jason hissed, grin jerking into a grimace as he fought to re-pin the kid's limbs and get his attention. "But it would have kept you safe."

"I don't need your kind of safe."

"You need something, because Robins who aren't prepared? They _die_."

Tim stopped struggling all at once, going limp and pliant, splayed out beneath Jason's hands. The kid wasn't looking at him though, head fallen to the side, disheveled hair sliding across his vision, still panting.

"I'm going to die," he whispered roughly. "Is that what you're saying?"

"I'm saying…" Jason sucked in a breath so the rest of the sentence wouldn't come out so sharp, and continued, "I can teach you how to control Robin."

That stopped him. The kid looked up at him, frowning dubiously. But Jason could see it, the serious contemplation behind those clever blue eyes, the desperate need for the control Jason promised warring against the anger, and he knew he'd won.

"Bats didn't tell you anything when he took you home, did he?" Because Bruce had always been secretive, overbearingly so when it came to releasing information, even to someone who obviously deserved to know. And in so doing, the man had practically gift-wrapped the kid for him. All that curiosity was undoubtedly killing him.

"Tell me." Tim's hand wrapped around his upper arm as if to pull him closer or just keep him from leaving. "Tell me what to do."

Jason leaned down closer, amused by the suspicion in blue eyes—clearly Tim still didn't (rightfully) trust him—and whispered his secret into the kid's ear.

"Want it."

"What?" Tim frowned.

"Want it," Jason repeated, smug. "Your Persona operates because of someone's Wish for the safety of all the little Gothamites. You're blacking out because you're fighting it, but when you want the same thing as Robin, you'll start to work together. Eventually you'll be able to control the change at will."

"It's all well and good to tell me to want it," Tim shook his head, threads of black hair tangling against the carpet, "but it's not so easy to change those things."

"Robin is affected by you as much as by the owner of its Wish. Whether you know it or not, you've already changed it." Jason grinned. "Robin has pants now."

"How are pants supposed to help me?" Tim asked, disgruntled.

"Oh, they will." Jason nodded sagely. "Trust me, those panties were freezing come winter."

"You…" Tim stared, caught off guard. "You were Robin?"

"Yeah, and I wasn't the first."

"What happened?"

"I died."

"You died?" Tim repeated disbelievingly. Of course he was skeptical, Jason would have been skeptical too. The question was open ended, waiting for an explanation, but Jason didn't want to talk about this—he hadn't come here for sympathy. Still, maybe it wouldn't hurt to let the kid understand a little.

"What we do, it's dangerous. Robin isn't invincible. Remember that and don't get yourself killed."

"Is that why you have issues with Robin?" The kid was looking thoughtful now, about all the wrong things, probably reassessing all those threats Jason had made the previous night, and that would never do.

"Just look out for yourself."

"Aw, you're worried about me."

"I'd just hate to pick up your pavement splatter." He cuffed the kid on the head. He did want to have a nice, lengthy conversation with Robin at some point, possibly involving his boot knife, but that would have to wait until he could entice Robin out without alarming Tim. Right now the Persona had a nice little human shield, and for better or worse, Jason actually cared about that human. The light was fading from the window anyway. His visit was over.

He reached out and gripped the boy's shoulder—too thin shoulders really, not ready for this work.

"Think about what Robin stands for, what he exists to do." He glanced back at the window and let his hand slide away, turning to go. Hood's ensemble ghosted into existence as he went, the heavy jacket, the mask across his face. When he glanced back one last time, it was with Hood's deeper growl. "You wouldn't have been chosen as his vessel if you didn't at least _believe_ in the same ideals."

Dusk was quickly turning into heavy night and he had to leave before Bats showed up, but he knew the kid would think about what he'd said, working at it with that clever brain, and slowly he'd become someone better, someone stronger. Gotham was going to have a new Robin. A good one. Jason was sure of it.

* * *

**Author Note:** So as not to leave anyone with any incorrect assumptions, please remember that Jason's one-sided views on Robin are based solely on what he's seen: Robin hasn't come to help Tim when he's been in trouble. Obviously that's only half the story, and it's going to take Robin's POV to sort it out, a POV that was supposed to be next chapter. Which brings me to my next sad order of business: I don't think that chapter is going to be posted for a long, long time.

Over the course of the past couple weeks I have tried repeatedly to work through finishing the next chapter, I tried jumping ahead to more interesting scenes (which usually works), finally tried taking a break from the whole thing, tried writing something else altogether (which also turned out to be unworthy, cliche junk), and then sunk into frustrated depression. It was only the other day, trying for two minutes to string two words together to communicate with a friend and failing miserably, that I realized it's over. The pregnancy symptoms have set in. Nothing else is going to get done until I have this kid. T_T This is the last chapter I'd managed to write before the problem started. I wanted to get this story finished before this happened, but I guess it took too long. There's a very tiny part of me hoping that ch. 5 is close enough to being finished that I might inch it toward that completion marker (especially since I woke up this morning and actually managed to write a tiny bit that I liked), but I don't want to make guarantees...

There was one question from a reviewer I wanted to answer publicly: YES. Yes, we are going to hear a little of how Jason and Dick lost Robin and gained their own Personas, how Jason got Robin in the first place (_that_ one is fun), as well as some other amusing (and not so amusing) stories and problems they faced. I don't know how much about Bruce and Batman there will be, I feel that almost needs a fic of its own, but we'll hear a few things. I have a lot of theories on them.

**Next Time:** Bruce finally gets that talk with Robin, Tim has annoying neighbors who suck at golf, and Robin finally gets back at Jason for harassing his vessel... heh heh heh...


	5. Something Out There

**Chapter 5**

Something Out There

"Not now," Tim said, not bothering to turn at the telltale whisper of wind along his bare arms that signaled the opening of his window. The number of visitors he was getting nowadays was ridiculous. "Busy."

He hadn't gotten as much work done as he should have. He'd been concentrating, pencil tapping thoughtfully. _Want it. Want what Robin wants._

"Robin." Tim spun at the unexpectedly gruff tone, eyes wide, and he really wished people would stop doing that: talking to him like he wasn't there, like the Persona inhabiting him was the one that mattered. "You're coming with me until your vessel is trained." There was a man standing imposingly in front of his open window, all gray and black, blending so well with the darkness outside that the edges seemed to blur together, _swallowing_ the light in the room. Even having seen him before, Batman was still impressive. The words crawled over Tim's skin, binding in a way that took his breath away.

"Oh," he said, and then everything went black.

Later, much later, he'd wake up in his bed to light pouring in through the windows, feeling like he'd actually gotten some sleep. Maybe it wasn't the end of his troubles, but it felt like a first step, like maybe the darkness wasn't so threatening or the bed so intimidating, and if Batman had done that—made sure Robin gave him a break—Tim could only be grateful.

* * *

"What happened?" Bruce growled.

He'd waited to have this conversation until they were in Gotham, away from Tim's sleeping father, even though he'd seen the damage as soon as the little Persona greeted him in the boy's room. The thick material of Robin's cape and sleeves was in tatters. There were tears in his bright red vest, gaps in the protection that kept the human boy inside safe.

He'd waited to ask though. He'd waited through the ride into Gotham, through parking the car and letting it fade away, through rappelling to the roof, just to make sure Robin _could_. He'd had his doubts. And now… now there was no one around, no more secluded place.

"What happened, Robin?"

"You _know_ what happened…" Robin's lips thinned bitterly. He'd been… subdued the entire ride over, much more subdued than the energetic Persona Bruce remembered. Maybe some of that seriousness was his vessel bleeding over—Tim seemed like a serious person—but Robin had been with Jason in the end too, and that seemed just as likely to instill solemnity if anything could.

Jason… It was the first time he'd seen Robin in a long while. The first time since the accident in fact. And the damage did look an awfully lot like that night. But…

"No. It would have mended." He didn't want to think about the accident. He'd tried to get there in time. He'd _tried_. But he wasn't the only one who'd failed back then. Seeing the damage Robin sported only reaffirmed his own belief that Robin couldn't protect his boys. Robin should never have been out there, putting them in danger. Robin should never have existed.

Batman shifted uneasily at the direction of his thoughts.

"It hasn't."

When they'd seen Tim last night, bare foot on the streets, stressed and exhausted, Batman had been furious and about five seconds from hauling Robin up from his vessel and reaming him out for the treatment of the boy. Bruce had been five seconds from letting him, except that it meant overriding Tim's consciousness, and the boy's grasp on sanity that night had looked precarious enough as it was. Now, seeing the state Robin was in, some of that pent up outrage dissipated. He reached across the distance and put a hand on the Persona's shoulder, gentler this time.

"Is that why you haven't been returning Tim home?"

For the first time Robin's gaze turned away from his, downcast to the dirty streets below, brow furrowed.

"I tried. I didn't mean to leave him. I couldn't… I _couldn't_ get him back." Robin shook his head against the idea, against the failure it represented, open mouth drawing in a steadying breath. It really was no good to chastise him. The Persona had probably been just as panicked at having to leave his vessel unprotected. Still…

"You shouldn't have been patrolling alone in this state."

"I thought if you saw, you'd keep me from fighting." The lenses of Robin's mask lifted to his again stubbornly. Bruce started to open his mouth, but…

"_He wouldn't have been out if it wasn't important_," Batman reminded him gruffly, intervening on the younger Persona's behalf before Bruce could reprimand him further, undoubtedly sensing his vessel's annoyance. And it was true that their vigilante Personas in particular seemed drawn to answering the needs of the city. If Robin had come back after all this time, despite being injured, if he'd put Tim in danger, then it was because something had drawn him back.

"Why did you push so hard?" Bruce asked the question Batman had wanted instead of the lecture that was on the tip of his tongue. "Tim was exhausted. Your vessel needs sleep. I know you know that." And if he got to finish some of his reprimand, then they'd both won.

"When the mission is important enough, it supersedes the needs of the individual," Robin parroted cleverly, using words Bruce had used a dozen times himself when staying up too late to finish one case or another. Words Bruce couldn't deny without condemning himself. Somehow he always felt the most like a disgruntled parent dealing with rebellious teenagers when he was wearing Batman and dealing with Robin. Annoyed, he did a quick mental inventory of their current cases, searching for one with that kind of priority.

"There isn't anything that important–"

"Jones," Robin cut in. Bruce frowned. The man had been turned over to Arkham a day ago, sans his Persona, raving about everything from voices in his head to angels, and that wasn't particularly telling. There were some truly nasty Personas in the city, Personas not above driving their vessels insane, and there was no evidence the Jones case was anything but.

"You know something?"

"There's something _out_ there, in Gotham." Robin's agitated hand sweep took in the city, struggling to put words to something that must have been obvious to the Persona. "I sensed it while searching for a vessel. I think Jones is connected." Which just meant the Persona didn't know anything useful, blind and deaf without a vessel to ground it, without a body to make sense of physical sensations. Still, if Robin said there was something to worry about, then there was.

"I'll consider it." That didn't mean he was letting the Persona off. Robin was endangering Tim, and Bruce couldn't allow that. Even if Tim wasn't one of his boys, he was still responsible. _Batman_ was responsible for the city and the Personas therein. "In the mean time, until your wounds close–"

"I can operate sufficiently," Robin interrupted. "And you need me."

"You–"

"You _need_ me!" Robin repeated, stubborn. "It took… so long to find someone who would accept me, someone brave, someone worthy." He shook his head, shaking Tim's fine, black hair, windblown like gossamer shadows. "It took too long to come back to you. You've forgotten why you need me. You don't even want me around."

Bruce blinked, taken aback by the idea that Robin might have come back for _him_, that the Persona might have picked Tim in part for his compatibility with Batman, might have taken extra time making sure this was the right one. Bruce had been doing his own digging, hacking into the boy's files and his past, and he hadn't been able to help wondering what it would be like partnering with this one, with someone so bright and quick and clever. Still, it didn't diminish the fear he'd felt seeing Tim barefoot and vulnerable in the street the night before, Hood's gun aimed at his head.

Here Robin had struggled to return, to help, and all Bruce could think was that Robin shouldn't have _existed_. He couldn't shake the thought.

There was just the slightest amount of resistance to the flexing of his fingers in the gauntlets, trying to keep from curling them into a fist. That resistance was Batman's disapproval.

They didn't disagree often, but almost all of their disagreements had been over the boys.

He couldn't just command the little Persona to stay off the streets. Even if Batman was one of the few whose authority he respected, one of the few who _could_ give him commands (the only other person he'd ever listened to was Nightwing), it wasn't that easy. Heaven knew he'd tried to ban Robin from vigilante work before. Dick had been Robin then, and the boy had become deadly sick, the Wish inhabiting him rotting away inside, unable to fulfill its purpose.

"You'll patrol with Nightwing or me until Tim is trained," he replied at last, using Batman's authority to constrain the younger Persona, wrapping it into his words. "You'll stop when we say stop."

This way they could keep a closer eye on him. Bruce didn't know why Robin's wounds hadn't closed, but it wasn't a good sign. It wasn't a good sign at all.

* * *

Robin loved the feel of the dark alleyways beneath him, shadows brushing his feet, the wind lifting his cape and dragging through his hair, grapple line taught as he swung between buildings, airborne and free. He loved all of it: the sudden burst of raucous laughter one street over, and the squeal of a cornered rat in the alleyway somewhere, and the thrill of danger that emanated from the dark labyrinth below, and just everything the city had to offer. It might have been that he was made to love it—another stipulation of the Wish comprising him—but he loved it all the same.

He swung across the street after the black-clad figure before him, gripping all the tighter when he thought he might let go of his line. It didn't help that Tim didn't have the muscle strength to keep this up yet. He would. He'd be one of the best of them eventually. Robin's own strength and endurance wasn't where it should have been anyway—a nagging weakness that worried him any time he stopped to think about it.

It was good to work with Batman again at least. He'd missed working the streets side by side, even if it wasn't the same. Bruce was more reserved, more withdrawn. His fighting was angrier, more prone to hemming Robin off from their adversaries. Robin wished he still had Dick's knack for cheering the man up. Instead, he bore the elder Persona's overprotectiveness in frustrated silence.

It wasn't without good reason, Robin had to admit grimly. Even if the watchfulness chafed a little, it was true that he was far from optimum condition. He still had the physical weaknesses acquired from the last moments spent with his previous vessel—a memento he couldn't seem to heal—and he couldn't patrol half the area he used to without exhausting himself.

Worse, he'd put Tim in danger. He'd _frightened_ his vessel.

"_I'll protect you_," he told the sleeping presence inside him fervently, even if Tim couldn't hear. It would have been so much easier if he could have talked to his counterpart, explained things. Dick had been able to hear him from the start, but then, Dick had wanted it. Dick had been excited about it, even when he'd literally collapsed from exhaustion because Robin wasn't used to the limitations of a physical body. It had been one of many things to learn.

If only he could talk to Tim, apologize, but Tim wasn't listening, still struggling to accept all the changes, and Robin hadn't even been able to help when the boy had needed it most. Even if he didn't believe for a minute Jason would have seriously hurt Tim (there was a small sliver of doubt that whispered he didn't know Jason anymore, the boy he'd known had changed), it didn't diminish the outrage and frustration he'd felt when the man had threatened his vessel. It didn't lessen the panic that had taken hold of him when the man's Glocks had leveled at them. He hadn't been strong enough to seize control from Tim, exhausted from a particularly bad night of crime fighting, worn out earlier even than usual.

No, he couldn't complain about Batman's restrictions if it meant keeping Tim protected.

"That's enough." They'd landed on a flat rooftop. Batman had undoubtedly noticed him struggling for the last half block. Tim's muscles were burning from the excessive use. Robin had used up most of his own dwindling strength. Batman opened his mouth, preparing the words that would see Robin home for the night, only they were interrupted by the sudden soft thud of another pair of feet hitting the rooftop beside them.

Batman's head whipped toward the sudden sound. Robin was caught up before he could even turn, crushed into a familiar embrace.

"Nightwing," Robin laughed, trying to fend the older man off. Not that anyone could escape Dick's attentions when he was determined to give them.

"No! I haven't seen you in forever!" the man complained. "And look at you!" Robin suddenly found himself held at arm's distance, blinking at the displacement. "You're a mess! What happened to you?" Nightwing's brow crinkled with concern, black-clad fingers running over the tears and gashes and singed marks on arms and chest and hips, never really letting him go.

"I was caught in a blast," Robin replied tiredly. Batman had timed it well. He could feel his grip on his vessel slipping. He needed to get back, to get Tim back, before he didn't have enough strength to get there himself. Wouldn't that just be the perfect insult to add to his injuries.

"When?" Nightwing asked skeptically, and Robin smiled a little. Trust Dick to catch on.

"Ask Batman." Because he didn't feel like answering all two dozen questions that would ensue twice. He would have loved to spend some time catching up with Nightwing, but he could barely stand up at the moment, and the man's enthusiasm was too much to deal with just then. He shot Batman a drowning look, still firmly in Nightwing's clutches, and the man intervened on his behalf.

"Robin is going home for the night."

The thinning of Nightwing's lips said this wasn't the end of their talk, but he cheerily pulled Robin against his side anyway, undaunted in his quest for quality brother time.

"I'll take him."

And that's how Robin ended up with Nightwing's motorcycle between his legs, arms wrapped around the man's waist as they wove through the darkened streets. This way he still got to spend a few more minutes with the older vigilante without using up the time needed to get back, and it was going to be close. The weariness was starting to set in more rapidly now, his hold on Tim's consciousness becoming more tenuous. The boy might have been sleeping, but he'd be in for a rude awakening if Robin lost his grip now.

Nightwing was a solid figure in front of him, a sturdy focal point in the world spinning back and away down the interstate toward the edge of the city. Robin rested his forehead against the man's spine and concentrated on maintaining his grip.

"Thanks," he whispered, fingers tightening, and wondered if he still existed because of this man, because Dick hadn't been able to give him up, even when they'd outgrown each other. It was too bad they didn't have any time tonight.

Nightwing might not have heard the whisper, but he definitely felt the slight weight against his spine.

"Doing all right back there?" The man's words were almost lost in the rush of wind. Robin had to strain to hear over the roar of the bike. Rather than answer, he nodded wordlessly. That seemed to worry the man more though.

"What's going on, Robin?"

"When I lost Jason, I took a lot of damage. Maybe more than I realized." He wasn't sure it was possible to take so much damage he couldn't regenerate—as long as his Wish existed, so would he—but something had been off since that night, and he could only assume that some lasting damage had been done he hadn't accounted for. Somehow, something had changed.

"Tim said you left him on a _ledge_…"

"It was an accident." Robin ducked his head against the man's back. It had been the first time he'd been out in years, and he'd known to account for the limitations of an untrained physical body (he'd been careful to avoid strenuous activities), but he hadn't accounted for the rapid deterioration of his own strength.

It was frustrating. He hadn't been this off kilter since… well, since he'd been new, and Dick had been patient, laughing instead of complaining when Robin had made them sick eating too much ice cream because he'd never _had_ it before. He was better than that now. He knew how to take care of a vessel. Except now there was something wrong with _him_. He'd never felt so shaky, like something was sapping his strength…

"Hurry, please," he whispered into the exposed skin high at the back of Nightwing's neck, letting the black fall of hair tickle Tim's nose.

Nightwing glanced back at him, worry evident even through the blank mask, but he pushed the pedal down, flooring it through one last red light and into the more secluded, heavily wooded hills. The darkness closed more tightly around them as the houses grew farther apart.

Nightwing hadn't asked any questions when Robin had told him to head toward the cave, but they were getting close now. Just one more driveway…

"Stop here." He tapped the man's elbow for emphasis.

"What? Here?!" Nightwing twisted his head to look back at him in surprise. Nevertheless, the man pulled off down the wide, paved driveway Robin indicated, even if he was still shaking his head. "The neighbor's kid? Seriously? You don't get out much, do you?" Robin smiled tiredly against his back.

"Maybe like just attracts like." He considered fondly the separate consciousness sleeping soundly in his care. Dick was going to like him. So was Bruce. He'd taken that into consideration this time. "Trust me, this is the right one."

"They always are." Nightwing's smile was doting as he toed the kickstand into place and reached back to tousle Robin's hair. They'd come to a stop behind a well-manicured shrub. "Where to?"

Robin pointed soundlessly to the second floor where one of the windows had been left cracked just a fraction. He swung a leg over the motorcycle to dismount and stumbled, nearly ending up on his face if Nightwing hadn't thrown an arm out, catching him last second.

"You shouldn't be out here like this."

"Have to." Robin shook his head, trying to clear it. Unlike Bruce, Dick didn't argue, only turned around, slung Robin's arm over one well-developed shoulder and hefted him up before he could protest.

"Come on, let's get you back."

"I don't need help!" But even protesting was taking too much energy.

"When you can fight me off, I'll put you down," Nightwing countered, already catching hold of the trellis along the side of the house, and it really was easier to just hold on and let the man push the window the rest of the way open and slide them both inside. At least it hadn't been Batman who'd seen him like this.

Once they were firmly on the solid carpet, he dropped to the floor and let the fatigue buckle his knees, plunking him down on Tim's bed.

"You can come to us. You know that, right?" Nightwing asked, brow crinkled in concern.

"I have to rest." He didn't mean to cut the man off, but he couldn't hold on any longer. He let gravity pull him back onto the bed, let the softness of the pillow be the last thing he felt, and withdrew, leaving Tim sleeping peacefully on his own bed for once and Nightwing smiling down at them crookedly.

"Good night, little brother," followed him out. "See you soon. Both of you."

* * *

**Author Notes:** Sorry this took so long. It took awhile to write, and then I had to go and add another scene (because I didn't think Robin was coming across very well without his POV), and then I was deliberating over accuracy of characterization and how lackluster I've been feeling about this story lately, and I'm just giving up and posting now.

As of this chapter, we have all the pieces to figure out what's wrong with Robin, though I don't know if anyone has put it together yet? Otherwise you'll have to wait for... oh dear, at least 3 chapters to find out. This story is going so slow.

Sometimes I sit here and wonder whether the other board members thought Bruce was going crazy when he started hearing Batman's voice during meetings.


	6. Cats in the Rhododendrons

.

**Chapter 6**

Cats in the Rhododendrons

If Tim thought things had been strange before, it was nothing to how things had become. It was the little things, really, that disconcerted him the most. The note he'd found on his desk that morning, for instance, which read simply, "Believe Jason." It had been written in his own penmanship. He had physically twitched and then thrown it in the trash, and then taken the trash out.

And there was the golf ball that had landed in the bird bath outside his window with an audible plop somewhere around midday. A golf ball that was followed by his neighbor knocking on his door, and there stood Bruce Wayne, the picture of a sheepish billionaire, golf club in hand.

"Can't you just buy a new one?" Tim asked, somewhat perplexed. It wasn't like the billionaire couldn't afford to replace a few lost golf balls. The gardener would find the old one, probably throw it away, and that would be that.

"Ah," Bruce rubbed his neck awkwardly, "this one was a present from Linda. I'd hate for her to find out I lost it…" Everyone knew about the man's latest fling. It was all over the tabloids.

And that's how they ended up outside, Mr. Wayne trampling the hydrangeas on the way to the bird bath. As he pulled the white ball from the water, Tim had to wonder at the power behind the swing that the ball had made it so far over the grounds and landed so neatly by his window. Frivolity could only account for so much error, after all, and this was well out of range of even the worst of attempted hits. Had it really been an accident?

Bruce headed back before Tim could decide, holding the ball aloft victoriously.

"Thanks, sport." The man ruffled his hair.

"Hey, if it helps you avoid the wrath of Ms Page." Tim shrugged, thinking the man would go now, but Bruce turned back last minute, head tilted consideringly.

"I heard you work with computers." Tim refrained from any remarks about the gross simplification of that statement, long since resigned to the assumption of the general populace that analysts merely fixed computers. It was said offhandedly, but there was something sly under the veneer of the comment. The man grinned jovially, and even that seemed subtly toothy. "Could I bother you to come over and take a look at mine? Perhaps tomorrow?"

"I'm busy tomorrow," Tim replied automatically, not particularly interested in helping the man send email or some other ridiculous request. Bruce leaned on the club, smile turning sharp.

"I'll make it worth your while."

Tim could've said no. He should have. He had enough to deal with now with Robin. But it was Bruce Wayne, one of Drake Industries' key donors. And he was curious what kind of computer the man had. And there was the whole good-neighbor thing to consider.

"What time?" he asked instead.

* * *

As it turned out, Mr. Wayne's computer was more of a highly sophisticated piece of tech. The term computer hardly fit it at all. It certainly didn't describe the dangerous curve of its exterior frame or the monstrous processing power he was certain he'd find under the protective paneling.

Tim stood staring at if, fingers twitching to touch, and that was to say nothing of the rest of the cave. The _cave_. There was a _cave_ under his neighbor's _house_.

Bruce was watching him knowingly, amused.

"Who are you?" Tim asked at last.

"Haven't you already guessed?" Of course he knew, but he didn't _believe_ it.

"Batman," he whispered. Bruce smiled approvingly, warm hand falling on his shoulder.

"Tell you what. Stay for a couple hours, work with me, as many nights as you can, and you can have access to the information on the Batcomputer in exchange." The computer had a name. Of course it did.

"Mr. Wayne–" Tim frowned. There was no way this man didn't know he'd been snooping through confidential reports from Arkham and Blackgate and the GPD, hacking information for personal interest. Not with what he was offering.

"Bruce," he corrected gently.

"What are you doing?"

"Teaching you how to be Robin." The man leaned back against the computer chair disarmingly, billionaire smile still in place—the selling-it smile. "So what do you say? Stay?" Too bad Tim had seen the other side of the man, the unforgiving side, black as the night.

He sucked in a breath, overwhelmed by the offer, by what it meant, who he'd really be training with.

"You trust me?" he asked, looking around, dazed by it all. What would those hours working with the man entail?

"I trust Robin. He's never made a bad choice yet."

It wasn't just the promise of getting to inspect that computer, or the hunger to know everything—_anything_—about Robin, to be able to work with the Persona inside him instead of getting used by it, but it was that trust. He didn't want to let the man down. Not Batman. And so there was only one choice.

"I'll stay."

* * *

Two days later Tim was seriously beginning to consider the need to install locks on his windows. The number of vigilante visitors was getting ridiculous. He jumped when unexpectedly poked in the side, and the bowl of popcorn he'd been carrying hit the floor with a resounding clatter, spilling kernels across the immaculate floor. He spun around, preparing to defend himself, and twitched to find Jason leaning openly against the counter, looking lazy and smug and like he'd been there all day.

When Tim only continued to stare—because this was not happening, not right now, not with his father waiting for him in the living room—Jason rolled his eyes.

"Well? Any luck?" the man asked.

"What?" Tim was still contemplating those locks he really needed to install, said need reinforced by the non sequitur of Jason looking like bad-boy porn in their home-ec-style kitchen with his father only a wall away.

"With Robin!" If the well-duh wasn't said, it was implied.

"_Now?_" Tim asked, struggling to lower his voice from the disbelieving pitch it was. "Really? You couldn't have dropped by later?"

"Why? Is this a bad time?" The grin told Tim the man knew exactly how bad a time this was, and _he was enjoying it_. Tim's mouth clicked closed around angry rebuttals, glowering his displeasure instead. He had yet to master Batman's scowl though, and Jason only raised an eyebrow, still smug.

"You–" But he cut short at the familiar squeak of the easy chair in the other room, cocking an ear to listen and shushing Jason when he opened his mouth.

Sudden footsteps padded closer from the next room over, jerking Tim into action. He shoved a startled Jason bodily into the cleaning closet behind him, knocking into the mops and brooms, and slammed the door just in time for Jack to come around the corner, frowning.

"Tim, what's going on?" His father was worried. He'd undoubtedly heard the bowl hit the floor, might have heard the voices, and had definitely heard the closet door slam. This was supposed to have been the reassure-the-parent mandatory movie-watching night.

"I, uh..." A golden kernel crunched guiltily underfoot. "I spilled the popcorn." Tim looked down pointedly at the mess littering the floor at his feet. "Go back and finish the previews. I'll just clean this up and be right there."

"Let me help…" Jack started for the broom in the closet. The closet concealing Jason.

"_No!_" Tim shouted a bit too forcefully, causing Jack to jump and stare at his son barricading the broom closet with suspicious bewilderment. Smiling disarmingly, Tim forced himself to look reasonable and calm and not like he was trying to hide any unpredictable vigilantes under his father's nose. "I mean. I can do it." Jason was probably laughing at him.

"All right…" Jack hedged, looking strangely at his son but thankfully heading for the living room all the same, if now shaking his head over the behavior of teenagers. But, well, if some concerns over his son's hormonal development were the only things Jack had to worry about when the night was over, at least he wouldn't have nightmares about Tim hanging out with elements of the criminal underworld in his kitchen. Tim breathed a sigh of relief when the man disappeared out of sight. The next second he'd flung the closet door open, grabbed a fistful of Jason's shirt and hauled him towards the stairs, crunching spilled popcorn heedlessly the whole way. He didn't rest easy until he'd pushed the man into his room and closed the door firmly behind him.

"You can't just show up with my dad here!" He still had a hand firmly on the door, as though he could bar it shut against intrusive parents or trap Jason and all the rest of his problems in his room. "What were you thinking?" But Jason was meandering around his room, examining the sticky notes stuck to his monitor and the pictures tacked to the bulletin board on the wall, finally moving to the framed one on his dresser.

"Have you thought about it?"

"What? That's not even the issue right now!"

"Oh, it totally is." Jason lifted the framed picture to examine it. "Have you thought about it?"

"Of course I have!" He'd been thinking about it all day: considering the need for Robin in the city, his purpose and responsibility. How could he not think about it? He was stuck with the Persona whether he wanted it or not, and there was nothing to do but try and get along.

"Well?" Jason waved the picture in front of him distractingly.

"Well, what?" Irritated, Tim plucked the offending object from Jason's unappreciative hands, and tried to sort out the fastest way to get the man out of his house before Jack noticed he wasn't coming back. "Nothing has happened!" When Jason only considered him blankly for a moment, Tim continued, "Look, I need to get back to my dad before he comes looking for me. You need to lea–"

"Robin hasn't talked to you?" Jason interrupted, eyebrows lifted questioningly, and Tim almost dropped the picture halfway through returning it to the dresser. He had a feeling the man wasn't talking about the sticky note he'd found earlier.

And just that quickly he was curious again, irritation melting away, despite the fact that there really wasn't time for it. How _did_ Jason manage to tick him off so effectively one moment and placate him the next?

"No," he replied, and couldn't help worrying a bit. Was he supposed to be able to talk to Robin? Was he doing something wrong? Maybe Robin just didn't have anything to say to him…

"Easy, shorty." Jason's hand fell on his head, weight bowing his neck and making him yet shorter. "I didn't necessarily expect you to get it so quickly. Aligning your thoughts will help you synchronize. Of course, there are faster ways…"

"What are you thinking?" Tim knocked the man's hand off his head. He had a suspicious feeling he wasn't going to like this.

"Your Persona responds to physical threats, attacks on your person. He'll come if you're in danger."

"I hate to disabuse you," Tim replied skeptically, "but Robin has never rescued me from any physical danger. I should know," he crossed his arms, "you've certainly attacked me often enough."

"Trust me, kid, he needs you in one piece. He'll come." He pulled the boot knife, flipping it skillfully once across his knuckles.

"What are you–" Tim edged away warily, eyes on the glinting object in the man's hand.

"I need to have a friendly chat with your new, night-loving personality. Let's see if we can't draw him out a little."

"Don't you even–" Tim couldn't finish before the man was on him and he was forced to dodge backwards, out of the way. And Robin wanted him to _trust_ the man? If they ever managed to communicate, he was going to have _words_ with the little Persona.

"When you're attacked the two of you will be the closest in unison, because you'll both be focused on the same thing: keeping you alive." Tim might have appreciated the lesson more if it didn't come with a live demonstration. He couldn't overpower Jason (the only reason he'd been able to manhandle the man into his room in the first place was because Jason had allowed it) and he could only dodge so many times.

"Why do half of our conversations end with me getting attacked?" He needed momentum, something to give him enough force to trip the larger man up. It was as he was thinking this that the tip of the dagger drew a bright red line over his collarbone, and he hissed, air escaping through clenched teeth.

The world started to go black at the edges, an unexpected tightness across his face, covering his eyes.

"That's it. Focus!"

The blackness abated a little as Tim fought his way through, grasping onto his outrage with clenched teeth. There was something… physical about the tightness covering his eyes, a slight weight. A mask, he realized, and the shock plunged him into darkness.

* * *

Jason reared back, swearing, when one of Robin's personalized shurikens sunk deep into his hand with a _sching_.

"_Don't_ damage my vessel!" Robin was just suddenly right there, in his face—the Persona had fairly _tackled_ him, using his moment of distraction to undermine his stance—Tim's limber body pressed furiously close to his, hot and tight with tension. Jason could feel the liquid shift of muscles against his own, the slow seethe of danger under the surface. "You're mad at me. Stop taking it out on him!" Even the words snapped, hissing from between perfect teeth. Robin, possessively protecting the kid. Because Robin's loyalties belonged to Tim now. Jason felt Hood rising defensively in response to the aggression, a rumble just under his skin, and rolled a shoulder to push it back. He didn't need help.

Jason grinned, more a baring of teeth… and flipped them, pinning Robin's smaller body—_Tim's_ body—beneath him.

"Don't pretend you care about your vessels. You certainly didn't care about your last one!"

"I did everything I could!"

"You _left_ me!" Jason slammed Tim's thin shoulders against the floor in brutal emphasis. "When I needed you most, you were just _gone_."

"You were the one who rejected me. When you came back to life, you'd changed. You'd moved on." Robin shoved a little against his chest, right over the place he could always feel Hood strongest. "You were taken. I had to find a suitable replacement."

Jason growled, because he didn't want to admit it, didn't want to accept that Robin's abandonment—the years of festering anger and loneliness and confusion, wondering if he wasn't good enough anymore, if Robin didn't want a damaged vessel, alternated with wondering if Robin even existed after taking so much damage—had been his fault all along. It had hurt so much when he'd seen the Persona again—seen that stupid, unforgettable, brightly-colored Wish on someone else, protecting _somebody else_—and known for sure that the Persona really had left him, that it wasn't just dead. He wasn't sure he was ready to let that hurt go…

He was shaken out of his thoughts by the press of Robin's fingers against his cheek, rough glove just the right amount abrading to get his attention.

"I failed you. I couldn't protect you."

Perhaps hearing the Persona admit fault made it easier to admit to his own, but some of the defensiveness drained out of him.

"I didn't do such a good job that night myself." Jason's grip eased, looking down into the mask beneath him. It was still strange to see it on someone else, even if that someone was Tim, the kid he'd found a couple nights back lost and panicked in a dirty alleyway. The kid he'd tried to protect. Needlessly, as it turned out.

Hood snorted suddenly, a mental exhalation at Jason's thoughts.

"_He wouldn't have been wandering around unprotected if there wasn't something wrong. He needed us. He still needs someone to look out for him, _look_ at him..._" The Persona's voice was unimpressed, taking in the scrawny body pinned below them, the tattered and scorched edges of the cape and vest, and... Was Hood being _protective?_ Jason blinked. But then, he shouldn't have been surprised. Hood had seemed to take to the kid from the start, and it said something that the normally standoffish Persona was worried too. Apparently he'd decided that Tim was harmless and Robin something of an annoying tag-along to be put up with and sometimes hassled fondly. How he'd won that status was beyond Jason, unless it was just that Robin also happened to be the only Persona to ever give Jason up, which had somehow decided him as non-threat, neutral territory.

"_He has the others now_," Jason reminded him. There was no way they were going to knowingly allow him around Tim after he'd openly attacked the kid.

"_We could always knock them out_."

"_We are _not_ knocking them out_." No matter how satisfying it would have been.

"_Still, the kid can't go on like this. He's obviously damaged. __It doesn't hurt to keep an extra eye on him_."

Jason had been wondering about that damage, pushing it aside because it hurt to look at it too closely. He really needed to ask...

The fingers on his cheek shifted curiously, distracting him from his thoughts.

"You've changed so much." Robin's mouth parted wordlessly, wondering, and it was strange to see such an openly soft expression on Tim's face. His thumb brushed over the ridge of Jason's cheek bone curiously, mapping familiar contours roughened by time.

Jason ignored the touch. He still needed some answers…

"Why did you leave Tim unprotected on the streets instead of returning him to his home?" It wasn't like the little Persona to endanger its vessel unless something was wrong. The fingers trailing along the edge of his jaw pushed back into his hair curiously. Jason caught the hand, stilling it, forcing Robin to look at him. The Persona sighed, releasing the breath he'd been holding in a sudden gust next to Jason's neck.

"Among other factors, I am… not recovered." He pulled on his trapped hand, asking for it back. "When Joker took you away, that damage has never fully healed."

"And you took the kid out anyway?!" Jason's grip only tightened.

"I couldn't wait any longer." Robin frowned unhappily. He twisted his hand free in one smooth jerk, unmindful of Hood's growl slipping from between Jason's teeth. "The city was threatened. I was called."

"Why didn't you come to us? Why didn't you let us help you?" He wanted to shake the little Persona, for all the good it would do.

"You would've stopped me. You didn't want me out there."

Jason opened his mouth to deny that sentiment, thought better of it, and shut it. It was another one of those things he didn't want to admit, but the Persona was right. He'd been only angry all week that Robin was back on the streets again. He knew Bats was still dealing with the trauma of losing the little Persona once already and didn't want the reminder. Nightwing might have been the only one of them actually glad to see him back.

"Give me the kid back," Jason demanded finally. Robin shoved against him, shoved against the _command_, bossed around by older siblings. But Jason was Hood, the bulkier, meaner Persona shifting inside him menacingly. "Give him back," he repeated. Robin shuddered, what might have been that worrying flicker again, and fell back.

"What are you…?" And that was all Tim, the slight squirm that accompanied imminent consciousness. Jason barely had the thought before the kid's fist nearly unhinged his jaw. "You jerk!" Bats had only had the kid for a day or two, but Tim was already getting better. Jason raised his hand to block his face from ensuing hits, and the kid's struggles stopped, that lithe body stilling all over.

"Jason! Your hand!"

"Heh. Robin disapproves of the way I'm… training you." His grin was only a sliver abashed. "I think we're making progress." Tim stopped fussing over the blood to throw him a dirty look, slanted blue eyes through black hair.

"Speaking of which…" Jason yelped as Tim pinched his injured hand mercilessly, throwing him off while Jason cursed and clutched at the injury. "Don't ever do that to me again." Robin would have been proud.

"Tim?" The voice came through the door, worried, accompanied by light knocking. Of course the kid's father had figured out his son wasn't coming back. Tim was on his feet in an instant, dragging Jason up by the shoulder.

"You have to go," he hissed. "_Right now_." Jason stumbled at the insistent pushing, but allowed the kid to herd him toward the window, latching onto the ledge at the last second.

"Training again tomorrow?"

"Are you kidding? You keep trying to kill me! Get out!" Tim shoved more insistently, hands on his chest, feet braced against the carpet, trying to dislodge Jason from the windowsill. But Jason wasn't giving up just yet.

"Tomorrow?" He did have a bad tendency of attacking the kid, but he wasn't giving up. They'd made _progress_.

"I have training with Batman!"

"I'll see you there then."

At the door, the kid's father knocked again. The doorknob squeaked, turning open.

"Tim? Is this about the movie? We can watch something else…"

"Fine!" Tim hissed, desperate. "Now go!" He threw all his weight into the shove this time and Jason's grip finally broke. He tumbled backwards out the window with a surprised yelp.

The last thing he heard before the glass slammed closed above him was Tim's too-bright declaration, reassuring his father, about cats in the Rhododendrons.

* * *

**Author Notes:** THIS was the scene I needed to finally get through to Jason, the resolving of his personal conflict, and I didn't want to do it by aiming weapons at Tim again, but I just... I give up on creativity right now. At least I feel like the next chapter finally starts to move us past the discovery stage and into some development. Jason showing up at training goes about as well as you might expect.

I have this strange little desire right now to write Persona verse with Earth-3 characters, where like, Talon is the manifestion of someone's Wish to make everyone else suffer as much as the wisher has suffered, and he uses his vessel mercilessly, and Jason tried to get the Persona blown up and it still didn't work. Too many alternate Persona ideas. Must not. (I wish I could get more people involved in writing persona-verse stories, there are so many possibilities!)

Thank you so much for all the encouragement! I always feel the need to write or proof-read a little faster every time someone reminds me they're waiting. I'm sorry I couldn't get back to all of you!


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